


The North end of the Salt Road

by Kalendeer



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Avari, Family Secrets, Feanorian drama, Finrod being his usual "see first think second", Gen, Noldor - Freeform, Noldor diplomacy, Uruks, Worldbuilding, angband diplomacy, beleriand worldbuilding, finwean secrets, goats and sheep and cows, maglor's gap, post first age worldbuilding, tales of the long peace, too much geography, trade, valinor worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: Looking at an old map of Beleriand, you may feel like Maglor ruled the tiny strip of land between the Little and the Greater Gelion – that would be the one labelled as “Maglor’s gap”, stuck between Himring and Thargelion; but in those times the Exiles held the Siege, encircling the Thangorodrim, and Maglor ruled the eastern link of the choking chain, from Lothlann to the northernmost foothills of the Ered Luin. I meant to ride as far north as I could, to where the Ered Luin almost met the great, red mountain range that was Morgoth’s stony kingdom.We are not there yet. We are still leaving Himring, riding down the stony path with goat herds flanking us.Finrod visits the Gap of Maglor, discovers life at the frontiers of the Noldorin realms is painted in shade of grey, and that some secrets should remain secrets.MAJ 09/13: After receiving many kind comments, I have decided to add a second part to this fic!Maj 09/27: The second arc is finished! The Quest for the Secret reaches Middle Earth, and we meet a new narrator!
Comments: 185
Kudos: 83
Collections: A Feast of Ashes Verse, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Riding north

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lidoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidoshka/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks to Lidoshka for the very enthuastic cheering up and bouncing of ideas for this fics! All comments are welcome, ranging from "<3" to super long chats about Himring's goat herds! I hope you will enjoy reading this piece and the art that goes with it!

We left Himring in the morning, riding down the hill on a rocky path surrounded by yellow broom bushes and freshly shorn wooly goats. The air was fresh, wind non-existent, and no cloud threatened our journey; in the distance, past the little sisters of Himring’s mount, sprawled the green expanses of Lothlann.

Those days were the zenith of the Noldor’s strength. Our realms were wide, our walls strong, and children were born of the blood of Valinor and Beleriand; those were the days of the Long Peace.

In those times the realms of the Fëanorian reached far. I had arrived in Amon Ereb in the summer, having followed the Long Wall of the Andram from Nargothrond to the lands of the youngest sons of Fëanor. Here I hunted with Amrod and Amras for a season, and occasionally met with the Laiquendi of the Taur Im Duinath and Ossiriand. When leaves turned yellow I rode north, following the river Gelion, and then its little tributary, which the local, with great lack of imagination, call the Little Gelion. Winter I spent in Himlad, feasting with Celegorm and trading travel stories with Curufin and Celebrimbor, who had gone to the dwarven city of Nogrod and were considering Belegost. Spring was for Maedhros’s seat, once the paths were clear of snow; now the season was edging toward summer, and time was ripe for the wide plains under Maglor’s rule.

Looking at an old map of Beleriand, you may feel like Maglor ruled the tiny strip of land between the Little and the Greater Gelion – that would be the one labelled as “Maglor’s gap”, stuck between Himring and Thargelion; but in those times the Exiles held the Siege, encircling the Thangorodrim, and Maglor ruled the eastern link of the choking chain, from Lothlann to the northernmost foothills of the Ered Luin. I meant to ride as far north as I could, to where the Ered Luin almost met the great, red mountain range that was Morgoth’s stony kingdom.

We are not there yet. We are still leaving Himring, riding down the stony path with goat herds flanking us.

I liked to travel with small parties. From Nargothrond came Edrahil, who would become most famous for following me to my (and his) death, and the scholar Saeleth, who was born in Brithombar and reveled in map making. Maedhros gave me two of his own to ensure I would reach Maglor. I still do not know if Lagron and Narwanis were meant to protect me from orcs or just to ensure I would be cautious, but now is either too late or too soon to ask Maedhros. None of those two were very talkative, and I think Lagron was wont to sleep on the saddle under the guise of his wide hat; he was of the North Sindar who had followed the sons of Fëanor in the early First Age, and a night owl whose eyes, as sharp as can be at night, disliked the bright sun.

Our first day was mostly rocks, goats and then sheep, and the buzzing activity of bees. We spent the night in one of Maedhros’ secondary fort, and the night after in another small castle, standing on the last small hill before the flat lands. I climbed on the roof of the single high tower to watch shepherds bring their flock in; in the morning, we left surrounded by the bleating of sheep, going north to fatten on the grass of Lothlann.

There was no clear frontier between Maedhros’ and Maglor’s lands. Only a saying: when rocks end and grass starts, you cross from the elder to the younger. We galloped with abandon, our spare horses running around us, glad that the risk of legs breaking upon loose stones was gone.

On the map, you will see some blank space, and the name “Lothlann” – which means “empty lands”, and get the impression that there was _nothing_ here. In truth there were no city, and no fortress of Himring’s magnitude, but Lothlann was thriving.

On this first day we passed sheep and cows grazing; at midday we stopped to eat and rest with two overgrown boys and their dogs watching over long-legged mares and foals. In the evening we reached Môrsernais, the Black Cairns, the first village of Maglor’s lands. A small battle had been waged here in times when orcs still roamed, their cremated remains been covered with stones, and Maglor had ordered a stronghold to be built nearby. We rode on a wooden drawbridge over a deep ditch, then onto the small hill erected with the displaced earth. The walls were of stone, topped with wooden palisades, and a square tower watched over the plains and a small village that had sprung around the walls.

At the end of the second day, we reached another village, Nimsarnas, whose story was oddly similar: a battle, bones buried, a fortified settlement, and Lothlann got a Pale Cairn to fill the empty spaces – white as the bones beneath. But those were times of peace, and when the children of the Black and Pale Cairns told me the story of their lands, their voices held no fear of Morgoth’s monsters.

We met Maglor at the close of the third day, riding from Amon Asgar. The hill was not his fortress; Maglor had none, and moved constantly from one place to the other, until winter came and he went south to winter at Himring. A Sinda called Asgar had been the commander of the first fort, before castle and lord had been attacked and burnt by a raiding party. Whether Maglor had chosen to give his name to the place to commemorate or to warn, I do not know, but it sounded rather ominous.

Still, Maglor looked healthy, so I guess Asgar had not remained to haunt the residents of his lost keep. My cousin’s skin was so tanned by the sun that his grey eyes stood out spectacularly; so did his teeth, when he flashed me a smile that was a little too wide to be honest.

“Cousin,” he started. His Sindarin was that of the old tongue of Hithlum, mine of Doriath, sprinkled with some Falathrim inflexions. “How unsurprising, that you bring us the first storm of the season!” And I did: black clouds had appeared in the west at the beginning of the afternoon, and came closer and closer as we neared Amon Asgar. Now they were looming over our heads, threateningly purple. “Come, let us seek shelter before the skies decide to wash you clean!”

Barely had we crossed the gates that the clouds broke into a great curtain of water. We retreated to the tower. The first level was packed and very noisy, with a small band playing with flutes and a violin in the midst of many conversations, so Maglor brought us straight to the third level. In the rooms of the commander were were brought hot milk sweetened with honey, bread and some wrinkled apples from the last autumn.

We exchanged some polite niceties, then Maglor dove right into the subject that, I do not doubt, was his chief worry: “What are your plans?”

I answered truthfully: “Riding as far north as I can, to where the realms of the Noldor end.” For in those days of apparent peace, I felt again the lust for far away lands Fëanor had awakened in my heart; and though I loved my kingdom, and could not remain here for too long, for fear of my love turning into cold ashes.

“The north frontier is not leisure ground,” Maglor warned me. He was cutting apples with a small knife and was not looking at me. His pale, grey eyes followed the tip of his blade. “The gap between the Ered Luin and the northern range is closer to Thangorodrim than one may think.”

“Not on the maps.”

“The maps do not account for the subterranean roads, the keeps in the mountains, and what the orcs call the _eastern colonies_. I do not like that idea of yours, to stroll up there out of sheer curiosity.”

“Will you stop me?” I asked with a smile.

Maglor frowned. His eyes went up, his hands stilled, and he studied me with cold calculation. “How? Should I detain you? Pack you in a bag and send you back to Maedhros?”

“Bold of you to think a bag can contain me!” I laughed. He did not follow, and I let mirth die on my lips to continue with a more serious tone. “I have no intend to seek danger for danger, cousin, but it is my belief that knowledge of the realms is what will bring us closer… make us stronger, when the times come to test our unity. Our people must not isolate themselves in their own corner of Beleriand, or they may wonder one day why they should rescue each other rather than remain cloistered in…”

“… their caves?” he askes somberly, and with flat neutrality.

“See? Had you ever visited Nargothrond, your golden tongue would spill verses upon verses for the splendor of the Caverns of Narog!”

A smile was his only reply. The Sons of Fëanor had been a restless lot in Valinor, but war had turned them into sedentary warriors, topped only by Fingolfin’s obsession for his own fortress and Turgon’s seclusion. Some part of me knew Maglor would never come to Nargothrond, that his Oath and duty would keep him always in view of the Enemy; so for as long as the storm lasted, I talked of my realm and its wonder, and he listened and promised to visit, even if we both knew it was a lie.

Come morning the rain had stopped, and when I joined Saeleth at the top of the tower, a sea of emerald speckled with flowers swayed under the wind. At Amon Asgar they kept no sheep, but cows and horses, and their keepers were leading them to the pastures on horseback. My Sinda mapmaker was painting the land between us and the Ered Luin: grasslands, low hills, and then the slate-grey slopes of the mountains. A temporary village had been erected here, round, flat tents around a central fire and, around them, high chariots in a wider circle. The space between them was closed by a low palisade.

“It is the customs of the Gap,” Saeleth told me, and I knew that while I talked to Maglor, she must have been making her own enquiries below, “that the travelers shield themselves, as if expecting war. There are always night sighted Sindar amongst them. They stand by night atop the chariots to watch the plains for orcs.”

I sat by her, watching the village bellow. To me, who sheltered my people in the strongest fortress that could be, these arrangements sounded like paper walls; yet I knew that without such adventurous people, who were ready to sacrifice their safety and peace of mind to settle those lands, North Beleriand would be left to less savory dwellers.

We stayed atop the tower for a while. The herds lumbered to their pastures; the nomads were dismantling their camp, tents first, then the palisade, everything packed in the chariots. The earth of Lothlann is hard and flat. No need of proper roads here, and the chariots would carry them to the next settlement to fatten their horses and trade. My eyes stayed on them for a long time, as the wind blew in my hair and Saeleth painted silently, and I thought of what I would tell my people. I thought of a melody for the hills and slopes, for the white tents, but my eyes could only follow the odd child galloping around the camp. It was obvious he had no clear purpose, as he ran his horse in circles, followed by a taller rider. His teacher, perhaps, or some kin?

I wondered what kind of parents would live here, with so little protection, rather than move south to the sheltered lands of Amrod and Amras. There were days when I marveled at the sight of children and thought of Amarië; in my mind eyes sons and daughters ran in the hallways of Nargothrond, sang in the stone gardens and laughed by the subterranean fountains. Then there were nights when I fell asleep feeling the yoke of Doom. Dreams circled in the dark like wolves. I felt like I just needed to reach out for my fingers to close around the visions, and yet was afraid to do so – the most animalistic part of my soul recoiled, and I knew my death was stalking me.

Had I dreamt thus that night? I do not recall. I merely remember I watched that child ride in the grass, imagined Manwë’s breath carried crystal clear laugh to the top of our tower, and felt like I could not understand how those people could bear to sire sons and daughters.

The child and the rider edged closer, and I saw Maglor was the elder one; then they darted back, chasing one another until they were back in the chariot circle, and Maglor emerged alone to ride back to the keep.

The nomads went south. We rode north, following a wide trail hammered unto the earth by decades of trade, on what the locals called the Salt Road.

Lothlann hosted sheep, cows and horses first, people second. While Himlad and the lands of Amrod and Amras were the grain granaries of the Fëanorian, Lothlann produced most of their meat. Maglor fattened livestock in the spring, summer and autumn, and then slaughtered half of it come winter to provide the citadels with salted meat ; yet the Fëanorian produced no salt on their own lands, and the west coast was too far to provide. What they needed they bought from the tribe of the Singrim, the _Salt People_ of the north.

I wanted to meet them, and Maglor did not. “The Singrim are no light matter, cousin, and I would have you blundering through decades of diplomacy.”

“Blundering!” I exclaimed. “What little faith you have in my people skills!”

“And you,” he answered, “should pay attention, when I tell you the situation up north is too tricky to stumble here with as little knowledge as you have.”

“Enlighten me, then.” I smiled broadly ; he knew that smile : it is the one that meant _I will do whatever I want, go wherever I want, and no one will stop me short of tying me up_ ; that was the smile I gave Maglor when we first saw each other after the Ice, and I looked at him as if I had just complete some childhood prank.

He had not laughed, then. He did not laugh either when he understood I left him with two choices: returning me to Maedhros tied to the back of a donkey, or let me meet the Singrim.

“The Salt People aren’t our allies. They insist they are neutral, and will sell to Morgoth’s slaves as much as they sell to us.”

“Angband allows them?” I asked in disbelief. The situation sounded rather grey, and from what I knew, Beleriand was usually painted in very contrasting black and white.

Or at least, it was so in the lands ruled by the Houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin; Maglor did not seem overly surprised. “Not Angband. The Singrim are too far from them. The orders come from a vassal Uruk king, east of the mountains, whom I suspect is tasked with providing food and resources to Angband’s mainland… neither he nor I have the strength or the will to crush the Singrim into submission without depleting our strengths and weakening our flanks, so the Singrim think it safer to indulge us both.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“About?”

“The Uruk king.”

“Nothing.” Maglor turned his piercing gaze to me. On his face I could read the matter had bothered him, once, before he ruled it out at something as immutable as snow and wind. “His lands of Forodwaith are too far for us to reach, and we believe he sends what he gathers by way of subterranean roads through the bleak mountains of the north. Prime orc territories. We do not have the strength, not unless we abandon the siege. This is a battle we can wage only through diplomacy and trade.”

“Not something orcs are famous for.”

A dry laugh came out of Maglor’s lips. “You would be surprised. For a start, it _is_ easier to convince people to sell their wares when the alternative is raiding and enslaving them. Those tribes, east of the mountains, have lived for centuries providing for Angband and their vassals in exchange for safety. They will not refuse to sell to the Uruk king unless they believe we can protect them – or that we will raid and steal if they do not.”

I said nothing of Alqualondë. Knowing how ruthless Maglor was at times, I was half surprised he had not thought of weaponizing his crimes; the thought immediately struck me as unfair. I knew how deeply his regrets ran, how corrosive the stain the Fëanorians could not erase.

How ironic, though, that they were despised by Thingol for that misstep, and yet not deep enough into it to meet their foe on equal footing.

“Should I expect to meet some… traders, of this eastern Uruk king?”

Maglor frowned. “I would rather not.”

“But I _might_ ,” I supposed, sounding like a child leering on a shiny piece of candy. Not that I _wanted_ to meet orcs, but I was recklessly curious, and was both appalled and unhealthily excited to dissect the utter mess Maglor described. “How do they look like?”

“I am _not_ allowing you to meet orcs!”

“Your objections are fully noted.”

“I am not joking, Finrod. We may not be attacking each other on the lands of the Singrim, but that does not mean those agents are not extremely dangerous.”

I was still young, then, and overly confident; and this pride of mine led me to believe Maglor was too protective of me, or not trusting enough in my skills.

How wrong I was.

Maglor had little choices in the matter. He had to ride north to renew his trade agreements with the Singrim, and nothing he said, during the two weeks he took to tour his fortresses and fortified villages, could convince me not to follow. In the end he must have thought it was better to let me follow rather than find me crawling north on my own.

The land remained ever flat, dry and grew colder. There were no children now, no nomads living in tents. The Fëanorian northern frontier was all small forts, cows guarded by huge woolly dogs and mounted bowmen. Even during the day we ate inside the protective embrace of a circle of chariots; we never stopped for the night unless we could rest behind a palisade.

“Every few months, we get some orcish scouts,” one fort commander told us over our dinner. Saeleth wrote down everything he said in a worn notebook. “Most of the time they come from the Iron Mountains, up north. Sometimes from the Ered Luin in the east. You should beware in these parts: the fatter the cows, the likeliest the raids!”

He told us of some of their latest orcish encounters, stories of stealthy bands crouching low and pinned down by arrows, of wolf tamers whose beasts fell to the fangs of war dogs, and of one especially nasty attempt that had started with a bunch of “escaped” slaves who were supposed to open the gates of a fort, and would have if one of them had not broken into tears and betrayed his new masters at the last moment.

“They were from _the east_ ,” the commander said. The soldiers of the garrison nodded gravely; some downed their beer as if the taste could dispel some unease. “Those tricks bear the mark of the Eastern King. Blades coated with honey!”

Yet the cows were fat, and we encountered no orcs until we reached the northern border.

The lands of the Singrim were a gate between two great barriers, their luck and their doom in equal parts. The mountain range of the Ered Luin fenced them in the South, the Iron mountains in the North; the Fëanorian in the West, and a mess of Avari and Uruk strongholds in the East. It was a gate for trade, from East to West. I beheld those lands and knew it would turn into a path for war. One day would come when the swords of the Noldor would fail and Angband’s armies would overcome them.

I do not know what happened to them, but of the Singrim nothing was told in Lindon or in any other elven realm of the Second Age, so I must assume my predictions were true, or that the Singrim left Beleriand to lands unknown.

The first we saw of the Singrim were stones, piled as high as the knees of our horses in little pyramids that, every thirty meters or so, marked the difference between what was theirs and what was ours. Then some small round, flat towers overlooked this limit atop low hills. We were made to camp under one of those in the night, shielded only by our circle of chariots and our bows, and the locals were not too keen on talking with us. Maglor did not try ; when Saeleth and I did, the guards only gestured north and repeated we were to talk to the Salt King, to the Salt King only, that they would say nothing to the _lachrenn_ unless their king told them to.

“They believe we will bewitch them,” Maglor explained, since I was surprised by the stern refusal.

I was not used to my charms being wasted on willingly closed ears. “Why is that?” I asked, half expecting to learn Maglor had tried some singing prowess in the past to disastrous results.

He shrugged. “Uruk envoys told them I could.”

“They believed them?”

“Well, it is not a lie. I _could_ , but ah, it is way more difficult to pull it off if they expect me to. My only consolation is that the raven is croaking “crow”: the Singrim believed them because they say the _uruks_ are a bewitching lot, and it takes one to catch one.”

We waited for a day until the envoys of the King of Salt reached us. They were all male, as uruks were wont to “elope” with female envoys more often than with their male kin, and the habit had stuck. They came on foot, with a few donkeys carrying gifts of food and beverage to the visitors. All seven of them were richly clad in bright wool, embroidered in abstract patterns and adorned with dwarven beads of copper, glass that looked Fëanorian, and another kind that was somewhat close to dwarven art that I could not pinpoint. Their weapons and jewels were the same sort: here was an axe from Nogrod, here a dagger with a pommel that looked like it came straight from the forges of Himlad.

Then the haggling began.

The envoys wanted to check everything Maglor had brought and were very vocal about what they liked and what they did not. In the decades the Singrim and Noldor had spent as neighbors, the locals had developed strong opinion on what, exactly, they expected from the newcomers : iron and bronze, as they forged only copper and gold ; clothes of linen ; glassware ; some dried healing plants that grew only in the south, and a part of Maglor’s production of salted meat, which he consistently refused to provide, arguing the Singrim would not consume the meat but simply sell it for profit to their other _trading partners_.

“They do not understand that we will _never_ accept Angband’s existence,” Maglor growled with some annoyance, as the envoys were checking bundles of bright blue linen. “From their point of view, it was always here, and Morgoth’s arrival was merely some high wave of violence that dwindled to… this. The manageable threat they have always known, that occasionally bullied them into giving them salt but also sold them the iron they lacked. When you meet their chief,” there was no if, as Maglor had given up the idea of convincing me not to go, “do not be vexed if he starts telling you this is our fault for disturbing things, or that we would be happier if we just decided to settle our disputes.”

Negotiations would go on for a few days. If I was to go to the stone city of the Singrim, that was now, and before Maglor changed his mind and decided tying me up was a valid option. Convincing the locals to allow me to their home was a dance on its own : first persuade the envoys, who stared at me long and hard until I felt like _I_ was a bag of glass beads to be exchanged. They probably wondered if I was of the witchy sort and to be kept at arm’s length like Maglor was. Then one of them returned to their city, since no Noldo was allowed past the frontier without the agreement of their king, and I waited anxiously for the golden words that would bring me to the northern corner of Beleriand.

Right when I was starting to believe they would refuse, the envoys went back: I was welcome to feast with the _Singren Aran_ , and to behold the carved halls of his people.

“This is pure recklessness,” Maglor growled. “You shall leave one of your own with me, and my warriors and yours will bear witness: if you do not come back I will drag them to Fingolfin’s feet myself to ensure they speak the truth, that you have only your own stupidity to blame.”

And so I went, alone with Saeleth as Edrahil remained behind (not that his presence would have changed anything, as the Singrim were not keen on me bringing a fierce looking warrior in their midst), and I am quite certain the strange itch between my shoulder blades was Maglor’s glare digging into my back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks to Lidoshka for this amazing painting ! [You can find it on DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/reunion-852213763) to leave her a nice comment! 


	2. The salt city

As we walked closer and closer to the city of the Singrim, I understood why the orcs preferred to trade rather than attack them : there were no buildings except a few round towers and a low wall, behind which goat herders brought back their animals as we approached in the evening. The city itself looked like some giant insect had eaten holes into the cliff, and short of being able to fly, the only ways to slaughter the Singrim would be through terrible bloodshed on stone stairs and in narrow tunnels or by starving them. I was certain it would come to that one day, should Maglor’s realm fall ; but I was also certain that, as long as my cousin stood strong, the Singrim would be able to shelter in their citadel long enough for him to rescue them should Angband make a move.

I was greeted at the top of the stone stairs by a son of the king, a burly warrior with the bronze skin his people shared with some tribes the Fëanorian first met in Hithlum. I refrained from asking my host right away about parentage. In Middle Earth, one never knew why tribes splintered. The Singrim may have elected to remain here because they liked the view, or they split with those who ended up in Hithlum through some family feud of finwean proportions.

The warrior led me directly to the baths of the city – I guess his hastiness may have something to do with me being unable to properly wash for many days, and said baths were oddly empty, and _guarded_. We were guests, not exactly unwelcomed, but not to be trusted either. We were then invited to rest for a while. I took the opportunity to sleep while Saeleth sketched nervously. We were far from any river, but I trusted dreams would warn me should some grave danger await me.

None came before they came to fetch us for the feast.

The great hall was a debauchery of luxury. The Singrim carved salt out of their mine and faces out of stone. There were dwarven ceramics everywhere, tapestries of abstract pattern whose origin I could not pinpoint, rich carpets and a good amount of food that was way more local than everything else: roasted goat and mutton, cheese, dried fruits and vegetables. The king’s people were assembling fast, sitting on the ground in long lines around low tables. There were no chairs, only flat cushions; the king himself sat above everyone thanks to a stone dais, upon whom I was invited to sit.

The king and his queen sat side by side. I was granted the spot at the right hand of the king and flanked by a tattooed elf who may or may not have a religious or witchy occupation. There was an empty spot at the left hand of the queen, and then a priestess of sort.

I was asked at length who I was, and I lied by omission, as Maglor had forbidden me from giving away my true identity : I was a traveler, which was true, bent on writing a book on the lands of the Noldor and their neighbors, which was also true and made the king frown. He probably took me for a spy which, in retrospect, was better than to be believed to be a prince.

The feast had already begun when the empty cushion by the queen was filled. The newcomer must have been a guest, for her outfit differed greatly from the colorful, richly adorned clothes of the Singrim: she was dressed all in black, though her clothes were far from simple, allying the shine of subtle leather and the texture of embroidery, black beads, dark linen and silk and see-through veils that followed every move like a mist of ink. The upper half of her face was covered by a mask of ivory, the lower half by spider silk fabric, and fake braids of a dusty grey mingled with what looked like real silver hair.

If I had to guess, she was…

“Esteemed envoy of the Prince in the West,” the king began, “esteemed envoy of the King in the East, as per the agreements of neutrality of my people, I have decided to allow you both in my halls tonight. Each of you assured me of your peaceful inclinations. Do I have your promise you shall not harm, nor seek to harm each other as long as you stand on Singrim lands?”

“By the gods of the North, blessed be their names,” answered the veiled woman, “I swear I shall not harm, nor seek to harm the messenger of the Noldor, as long as we stand on Singrim lands.”

She was of a frail stature, but her voice was deep and somewhat reminiscent of my sister Galadriel; when she spoke, I was reminded of dark, still water, whose surface may hide many a secret.

No matter how unwelcome her presence was, I had no authority to protest, and my choices were either to swear or to leave. So I swore that I would do nothing and pretended this bothered me less than it did.

We could not interact with each other until the first servings were over, as I did not wish to speak above the head of the king and queen. At the end of the meal some sort of local, bitter tea was served and people started to move around and sit whenever they wanted. The women avoided me like I was going to steal them off, to the point I wonder if something like that had happened before. I was, however, quickly surrounded by a circle of curious locals very keen on measuring just how much I was gritting my teeth about the dark woman.

I believed this was the perfect opportunity to gauge my enemy, and asked the simplest question: “What is her name?”

It was probably false, or as false as my Ingoldo, which was not untrue, but slightly dishonest, as no one in Beleriand knew me by that name.

“Shadow,” the burly prince who had welcomed me answered. “Shadows say they do not have names, so we just name them that.”

“How do you differentiate them?”

“Well, the usual one is the Haggling Shadow, because he is worst than a dwarf for trade. Once we got the Tall Shadow, who was, as his name would let you believe, freakingly tall. That one is the _attractive_ Shadow. That is why only our women may speak with her – they call her the Tricky Shadow.”

“Is she of the witchy type?”

“ _Very_ witchy indeed.” The whole group nodded as if they all knew secrets I did not – well, I may not know this sorceress personally, but I had not landed in Middle Earth yesterday either. “You do not have Shadows in your lands?”

“We are not on very friendly terms with their master,” I understated.

By they look, they did not believe they were either. “Shadows come and go.” More knowing nods. “You may have some and never know.”

“How so?”

“Some Shadows will look like you and me. They do not have faces, so they can steal the skin of others.”

Nods nods.

Perhaps they were hoping to scare me, but I was mostly curious. As I say I was not as green to Beleriand as they made me to be, and magical disguises were not unknown to me – some spies played us before, and Noldor have many flaws, but inability to learn from mistakes is not one of them. That is why despite Saeleth clear disapproval, I found myself edging closer and closer to the Tricky-Attractive Shadow, until I was close enough to see that her eyes were of a lavender shade that was uncommon, yet not unseen in some Noldorin lines, and that their shape seemed Noldorin as well.

“Lady,” I started, hiding my curiosity under honeyed amiability, “I fear I do not know how to properly address your kind…”

“You may call me Shadow,” was her very predictable answer, that was as sweet in tone as mine had been. “Shall I call you Lord?”

“If that would please you, though I am no Lord.” Indeed not, for I was a Prince. “I heard you came bearing words from your king in the east.”

“Of friendship, yes. For the king of the Singrim.” She tilted her head a little. “And vows of our continued support, should he need to retain his independence.”

“From whom?” I joked.

“From those who invaded most of Beleriand two centuries ago,” she answered lightly. “The Noldor are most ambitious.”

“The Noldor have no wish to conquer the lands of the Singrim.” Not that they had the strength to do so, so what they did or did not wish for was irrelevant – but to have an orc of all people complain about invading armies was the raven whinging that the dove is black. “I fear I must ask for a change of subject, Shadow, as I cannot say the same of your people without bordering on _seeking harm_.”

She smiled; her lips were blackened, and I could see them curve through her veils. “My people know _when_ to conquer, Noldo. Since they came from the Great Lake the Singrim have been valued trade partners. Why would that change? To renounce our agreements is not the will of the king, nor of the gods.”

“What kind of king he is?”

“Of the kind that likes poetry, the precise pronunciation of all languages he partakes in, and the flaying of the enemies of his people.”

“And here I was, starting to think you were describing a proper artist.”

“Only an elf who never saw flayed skins, floating like red leaves from the branch of a great tree, would pretend there is no poetry in his punishments.”

“I fail to see the beauty in it.”

“You were discussing the artistry, Noldo: must the verses be beautiful to earn the right to be called _art_ , or may they simply strike the heart and soul?”

“I much prefer art that does not include body parts obtained through torture.”

“It is not torture if they are dead. And I believe the Singrim are much reassured to know my king will flay any stranger who would seek to take their lands from them – as per our friendship agreements.”

“Your warnings are dully noted,” though Finrod did not doubt Maedhros had heard about that before, and probably laughed his head off, and shouted to the wind they were welcome to try to get his skin from his corpse.

“You should know, however, that our king is known in the east for being a very agreeable host – and that all of those who respect his peace can go safely. Should you want to go farther than your people’s prejudices…”

“I wonder what kind of food he serves.”

She smiled predatorially. For a while I expected her to answer something like human and elven flesh, but ultimately, she said: “He is very fond of lamb, and duck cooked with peaches.”

“Oh dear!” I laughed, and I was almost sincere, and perhaps Maglor was right and I should not have come here if I was starting to appreciate orcish jokes. “You almost make him sounds welcoming!”

“We have no reasons to be _unwelcoming_.” The Singrim had steadily started to trickle away from us, and we were now standing alone, though some of the locals where hovering close enough to intervene should we break our oath. “We can be very generous hosts – about many things. The gifts of the Great Smith were valued in Middle Earth long before your arrival.”

“I am not interested in trinkets,” I answered. We had left the great hall, which was starting to be stiflingly hot, for a balcony carved into the cliff that overlooked the lands between the mountains. The sounds of a crowd talking remained at our back; in front of us, we could only hear the croaking of crows.

“What is it that you want, then, Exile?” She leaned against the railing, her lavender eyes seeking the horizon. West. Valinor.

Or Angband? “Were you born in the lands of your eastern king?” I asked, rather than answer her.

“No. I was born in the Iron Citadel that you call Angband.”

“So you, too, are an exile of a sort.”

“Forodwaith was ours before I was born. Moving from one province to another is hardly an exile.” Her gaze returned to mine. “Here is one answer, and you still have a question pending.”

“I want peace for all in Middle Earth.”

A smirk. “So do we. On our terms. Do not tell me you disagree: if peace was what you wanted, first and foremost, you would lay down your weapons.”

“I will not disagree. There are some forces that must be fought.”

“If you believe so. Do you regret leaving Valinor?”

“Why would I answer that?”

“To get an answer from me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes. Do you regret leaving Valinor?”

“What is your name?”

“Now, Noldo, that is a _second_ question.”

I should have told her nothing – I should have seen the caution of the local as a warning not to approach her, but in my pride I felt like a single small woman could be handled. Those lands were far from mine, and she had no way of knowing who I was.

But the truth was, I was not certain of my answer. There were days when yes, I regretted, and the thought of Amarië, of my father and mother, of my kin amongst the Teleri and those I left amongst the Vanyar… yes, there were days when their absence was a hole in my heart. And then there were days when I marveled at the wonders of Middle Earth and thought I would have been lesser, had I stayed behind.

“Usually not,” I told her. “Sometimes. Now, your name?”

“Lagreth. In the tongue of this land.”

“So that is not how your friends call you?” Did orcs have friends? “Or your king.”

“My king speaks to me in the Holy Tongue of my people. Heretics such as you are not worth the honor of hearing us speak thus.”

“Charming.”

“Are you married?”

I chuckled. “I fear, shadowy Lagreth, that your people and mine would not approve of a betrothal between us, if that is why you ask! But alas, no, I go alone.” Nonetheless I though of Amarië, and that I had hoped…

“You would be surprised.”

“By what?”

“What my king would approve of for the sake of peace in Beleriand.”

“On your terms.”

“Yes. The God of the gods and True King of Arda must rules. Still, details can be worked out.”

“I must think about your proposal, for there are many things to take into account, starting with: should we get married, which by the way would require me actually seeing your face at some point…”

“I do have a face,” she said. The slim, predatory smile returned. “Heretics are merely unworthy of its sight.”

“The children! Who would get to keep the children? I think I should. I am not quite convinced your people have an outstanding care and educational system for children.”

“What would you give for my king to allow you to keep them? I would not have my children be raised by a heretic without some compensation.”

“Do all orcs have such a sense of humor?”

“I am not joking.” Her lavender eyes were, indeed, of a rather steely sort; her voice also, and I suddenly wondered: what kind of conversation have I stumbled into? “Shadows may be spies, assassins, diplomats and warriors, but first and foremost they are _traders_ , Noldo. We give people what they want for a price. If you desire a child – I can grant you one much more easily than the beautiful Elda who awaits in Valinor, considering you will probably never see her again. All you need to do is give me something I want in return.”

I felt my belly turn to ice. I was less stunned by the immorality of her proposal than by how spot on it was. The moment she spoke of Amarië, the picture of her face came unbidden into my mind – and then, when I looked into the Shadows’ eyes, they were of the same sky blue as my love’s, but darker and deprived of light.

“We can wear many masks, Noldo. You need just ask.”

“It seems to me you offer much, Shadow,” I told her, my tone as cold as I felt. How much did she know? “Yet your king would be cheated, were I to accept. I am only a humble traveler.”

“And I am a mere Uruk.”

“Are you?”

“No. Shadow is a title born with pride by the highest ranking only, and I believe you would not be below me in rank, Ingoldo of Alqualondë.”

I took a step back. “Speak clearly, Lady: for it seems like you believe to know…”

“… who you are? Mayhap I do, mayhap not, Ingoldo of the Vanyar.”

“I believe we are done.”

“If you so wish.” She bowed, Tirion-style and not without a hint of mockery. “Should you ever believe yourself to be too humble, please do remember we can provide ways of hastening succession in your favor…”

“ _We are done_.” I left the balcony, furious and vexed. Many glares converged to me; whispers and low chuckles rang, and I wondered how many of them were aimed at the stupidity of the prideful Noldo who believed he could tackle a Shadow unprepared.

And unprepared I had been! How had she known about Amarië? Had I guarded my thoughts with too little cunning? Did she know who I was before we started talking? _How_?

Maglor had been right: I was reckless, stupidly so, and had been made a fool of for no other reasons than prideful curiosity!

So when I returned, and he asked with the most neutral face: “How was your stay?”, I had the honesty to mumble the beginning of an apology that made him look very smug.


	3. Riding south

I tried to push this incident at the back of my mind. Nothing dire had happened to me, and that I had somehow leaked Amarië’s existence into the world did not seem like it gave our enemies any edge, as she was an ocean away. Yet as I went to sleep, I was harassed by dreams of children singing, running, laughing ; of little hands reaching out to me, of pouty lips calling for me, of huge, lavender eyes looking at me as if I were their world.

As our horses took us south back to Himring, I grew somber. I remembered the child of the nomads, and how shocked I had been that such younglings existed in the dangerous lands of Lothlann. And now here I was, unable to shake off the melancholia; Lagreth was a threat, no one I knew, and the shades she conjured nothing more than that, and yet I felt deprived.

“How can they bear it?” I asked Maglor, once we reached Amon Asgar again. The nomads were not there, and no child was riding in the grass. “To sire, to raise children in this place? Do they have no fear of shadows, orcs and raids? Is it not against our nature to bring life into lands fearing death?”

Maglor shrugged. “They are used to it.”

“Who?”

“Everyone but us,” he said, slowly. “This is a question I asked before. A long time ago, when we first settled by Mithrim and started to mingle with the tribes. They could not understand, having always lived under the threat of Angband. Even the oldest ones, those from Cuivienen, they remembered the shadows that prowled around the shores. If danger were to keep them from bringing forth children… then they would, in their mind, forfeit that forever. Most will move south during the first years and will return here once their children can ride and flee by themselves.”

I thought of the child, of Maglor riding with him, and asked; he was the son of a dear friend who had died a few years ago in a skirmish. The mother was a North Sinda, born my Lake Mithrim, one of those who welcomed Fëanor as he reached their lands, saw him and his followers, and decided his Song was worth the ride, his horses gifts of freedom, his swords torches against the shadows.

For her, waiting for better times was pointless.

I asked Maglor: and for you?

“Do you feel it?” He asked in return. “The weight of the Doom? Can you hear the slow beat of the Oath, mingling with my Song? What hope can be found, for an heir of the House of Fëanor?”

“Your brother has a son.”

“Yes – the heir of our House. As long as Celebrimbor lives, there will be no need for another.”

The heavy silhouette of Himring was looming at the horizon, and so did the end of summer. At the end of the harvests and before rain, wind and early snow hit the realms of the Fëanorians, the seven brothers gathered for a great feast with their lords ; a great crowd gathered bellow the rocky hill, and then the wandering folks of the Gap went south to winter on the lands of Amrod and Amras, where the winter was kinder. As for I, I was planning to ride to my brothers in Dorthonion and spend the harsh season with them.

You have to imagine, then, that this scene happened while Himring was barely visible at the horizon, at the southern edge of Maglor’s lands, where low hills and cairns of past battles broke the sea of grass. It was a sunny day with barely a hint of clouds atop the Ered Luin. We had spent the night in Nimsarnas, and you will remember this was the second village of the Gap I visited. Except this time the wandering folk had set their tents and chariots around the fort, so that the village looked like a very small town where Maglor had gone early in the morning. I was searching for him and was directed to the pastures outside (which, by then, were starting to look a bit worn down by sun and cattle alike). So I went to the pastures and saw Maglor from afar.

The first time I encountered the wandering folks, I had seen Maglor riding with a child ; the child of a deceased friend, Maglor had said. I had thought little of it, as there were plenty of reasons a prince of the Eldar may do so. But as I watched the same scene unfold under my eyes, I felt a pang, an attunement to the song ; the perception of something like the silence that vibrates around a bell once it falls silent. The more I watched, the clearer I saw.

Was that because the Shadow talked of children? Was that become my Song had, somehow, become attuned to the yearning of a father for his child? I had believed Maglor easily enough – for Celebrimbor’s birth had been widely known, clamored as a victory during the Feast of Reuniting, many years before, and surely another son in the House of Fëanor would not have been kept a secret.

Nonetheless I was, suddenly, viscerally convinced the child was _his_ – not that of a friend, not that of a vassal, but a son that _should_ be Maglor’s heir, _Fëanor_ ’s heir, and yet was no one.

My anger rose. I had been lied to; and then I was glad I had not been aware: for Amarië was no dangerous secret to spill, while a child of Maglor, living in the Gap, was another matter entirely. So I stood there watching them, the child laughing as his horse galloped on dry glass, Maglor following with a rare smile and his dark hair flowing in the wind. I watched when Maglor helped the child down his mount. I watched as his son ran in what remained of the grass, tall and yellow, to run into his mother’s arm. Not a Noldorin lady of high birth, like Celebrimbor’s mother, but a Sinda born under the shadows of Angband, whose name I never learnt. Who was she? That I cannot tell you, past what I said before: that she was from the shores of Lake Mithrim and had welcomes Fëanor’s words into her heart.

We all have our flaws – mine, most certainly, is curiosity. I promised myself I would not ask nor seek the truth. Yet as we feasted in Himring and wine got into my head, I found myself alone with Maglor, in some hallway as we stumbled toward my bedroom. I was more drunk than he, surely. I leaned against the door frame and looked into his silver eyes. They were strikingly pale in comparison to his skin, tanned by his day-long travels in Lothlann.

I started to ask: “The child…”

He put a finger on my lips. “ _On the House of Fëanor lieth the wrath of the Valar,_ ” he repeated. He needed not to complete the Doom: it was etched into my mind, as it was in his. “Less harm will I do him by dispossessing ourselves.”

And we spoke of this no more.

This, I have not shared with anyone ; of the White and Black Cairns, I had many things to say, of the colorful clothes of the Singrim and villages of tents, of fat cows and orcs, of the goats on the slopes of Himring. But Maglor’s son I pushed back into the farthest recesses of my mind – not to be thought of as long as I lived under the shadow of the Enemy.

Why now?

Well.

The Age is over. Lothlann has gone under the sea, the Singrim have gone, fled or slaughtered, and Maglor disappeared into song riddled mists. Who shall tell you? None of the Sons of Fëanor have returned, and none of their followers will betray the Lord of the Gap, even those who turned their back on him at the Havens of Sirion.

So here I am, breaking my promise; hoping, my dearest daughter, born in lands of eternal peace, that you may one day find your lost kin, born in secrecy and war-torn kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks to Lidoshka for this amazing painting ! [You can find it on DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/reunion-852213763) to leave her a nice comment! 


	4. Part 2: Searching South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after aaaaaaaall the nice comments, I have decided to make an addition to the fic with a second part: Finrod's daughter goes searching for the Lost Cousin, his name, his history... and may perhaps meet him? 
> 
> I am planning for three chapters, like the first part! I am not 100% sure how long those chapters will be, but I would say roughly the same length as the first three. 
> 
> ENORMOUS THANKS to everyone who left comments thus far: Bunn, FirstAmazon, holy_milk (who wanted more Moruivë after Feast of Ashes!), Himring, batshape, StarSpray, Ilya_Boltagon (who wanted to know what happens next!), Kendrix, CateWolfe, Iferion and starlightwalking!  
> And most of all: enormous thanks to LIDOSHKA for her awesome comments and the discussions in the comments, I loooooooove so much when readers talk and talk and talk, really that makes me so happy <3 
> 
> I wish I could tell you "it'll be a chapter a week", as I did for A Feast of Ashes, but I am back in school, plenty of work, so I may actually take longer than that... anyway, stay tuned!

To Prince Tyelperinquar Curufinwë, whom they call Celebrimbor,  
From Princess Vinyarë Aralimë Findaratiel,

I do not know when this lengthy letter will find you, nor why I have decided that you, a cousin I have never met, should be its recipient ; and yet I find that of my numerous cousins, you are the one I wish to share this story with. Perhaps because my tale deals with your House, more than mine, and the surviving blood of Fëanaro and Nerdanel.

My story starts with a letter from my father, who wrote from Alqualondë while I was in Valmar, with tales of the Gap of Maglor, Lothlann, lost tribes and lost children. I have attached a copy of said letter for your perusal! You may want to read it before you return to my own purple prose!

I left Valmar on a sunny morning. Arien’s rays bathed the city in kind, golden tones; Manwë’s breath played into the silver leaves of the olive trees, and birds were making a great ruckus along the way, until I reached the Arch of Light. My father told me Princess Aicahendë, you mother, was a glassblower: surely you must already know everything about the stained glasses of the Arch! It is best admired at sunset, when Arien goes to sleep, roughly, in the direction where the Trees used to shine. For three days then did I follow the mosaic road from Valmar to Tirion, until I turned south to the hills of the Lords of Copper.

In the early times of Valinor, craftsmen led by your great-grand-father Mahtan settled there. Ore blossomed on those hills like fiery flowers, and the presence of Aulë does, once in a while, bring up new harvests in those parts. Now the whole area is dotted with the villas of great craftsmen, their forges and their studies, and though some of them await still for their Fëanorian owners to return, most are ringing with the songs of hammers. The villa I rode to was one of the newest: that of Prince Naryafinwë. I rode under a great gateway of wrought iron, the dark star of Prince Carnistir, whom you call Caranthir on your side of the sea, entwined with copper red; on the black marble pediment were engraved and painted the sigils of the House of Mahtan and of Fëanaro. Here I waited for a while, bathed and took refreshments. As a smith, Celebrimbor, I do not doubt you will understand why our cousin did not great me with hast! I came uninvited, and Naryafinwë would not let his work waste in the flames to greet me.

By then evening was upon us. I, clad in vanyarin white robes, had woven silken flowers into my braids; he, who fancies dark colors as his father did in his youth, carried no ornaments other than his fiery red hair and the freckles on his nose and cheeks. Some say the beauty of your uncle Maitimo surpassed that of Naryafinwë; if this is so, dear cousin, I shall admit I would have died of love, for I know no elf in Valinor who looks more handsome than him.

My visit was unplanned, so his first question was, of course: “Little golden one, what brings you here?”

We sat, and I read him my father’s tale, and of Maglor’s son in the sea of grass. It took a long while; never did Naryafinwë interrupt me. He remained still, his long fingers tapping idly on the crimson trims of his tunic, while his mahogany eyes focused into nothing. I could see his mind taking in the pictures of my fathers: the plains, the faces of the uncles he never saw; pieces of an inheritance he had to carry, as the sole Fëanorian Prince on this side of the sea.

“Well then,” he said, “I guess you came to me in hope of finding Maglor’s son?”

I nodded. I never doubted Naryafinwë would want to support my quest, for even when his family was reviled, his kin called rebels and traitors and, later, murderers, he never wore anything but the sigil of his houses, Mahtan’s copper and Finwë’s star, Fëanaro’s diamond and Carnistir’s black star. I knew I had not misjudged him: the glint of his eyes, the way he set his jaw, everything clamored that he had found a delicious secret to unearth. And most precious it must have been to him, who was born right after the Darkening, when those princes of legend had sailed out of the reach of his baby hands.

“I never heard of this,” he admitted, “and I do think the High King would have told me, were he aware – so you and I must suppose no kin of Finwë, except your father, can tell us… if Finrod does not know the boy’s name, we should seek that name first, and then find what befell him. Therefore, our investigation resumes where Finrod left it: amidst the tents and chariots of Lothlann…”

And that, going back to Lothlann, is exactly what we did.

The next day, Naryafinwë settled his most urgent affairs, had his best horses brought to the main house from the fields and food and gifts packed; the day after we left for the great pastures of Yavanna. The road ran from villa to villa, so that in the first three days in the lands of the Aulendur, we ate in the halls of the craftsmen of Mahtan’s following. Then the paved road left the hills for the great flat fields.

In the times of the old king Finwë, no elves lived in the great pastures. There were hundreds of villages at its edges, small communities who bred horses and cattle and loved the quietness of their rural life more than bustling Tirion. From time to time one of their own came to the great cities for festivals, but overall they heard from the other Noldor from the House of Mahtan or from travelling princes and lords bearing small gifts. Our travel, here, was not quick: Naryafinwë is a proud smith, and it pleases him to give away the work of his hands and that of his apprentices to celebrate births, weddings and coming of ages. As for I, I had no gift others than my songs and dancing, and some new poetry they had not heard yet, and the villagers seemed very pleased.

The end of Beleriand changed the pastures. There were elves born in Middle Earth, and others who have been exiled there, and had no wishes to dwell as the Noldor and Vanyar of old had. Some of those were from the Gap, and those had rebuilt their chariots, bred new horses and woven new tents. They guarded their camps not from orcs but from the wildlife of the pastures. Yavanna’s lands could be feral and not a little dangerous.

“I am searching for Moruivë Seregenn,” Naryafinwë asked, in each village we reached; and it took us a good twenty of them before a matriarch told us the Blood-Eyed Lordling had passed a week before, and we could perhaps catch up by following the Trail of the Lionesses. She warned us the trail could be unsafe and lent us a pack of big hunting dogs to protect us on our way.

Summer was upon us. The pastures were hot, swaying, golden grasses till the horizon came upon it with the deepest blue. We rode fast, for the ground was hard and even, and followed path flattened by hooves and chariots wheels. The first wandering clan we met, we spotted when their dogs started to bark and ours answered, so that we spent our first night by a well under some great trees. The light of the cooking fires danced on the painted sides of the circle of chariots; I closed my eyes and let the music of pipes and small drums carry me back to my father’s tale. I tried to picture myself in lost Lothlann as night descended around us. Were those songs the same my mysterious cousin heard as he grew up?

“Blood-Eyes will be going to the Lion’s Rock,” the chief of the caravan told us. “He and his foolish folks search always the most dangerous hunting grounds.”

As we rode away, I asked Naryafinwë why our informant bore such a disgraceful epessë. He merely smiled, more of a smirk, really. “It has been said, amongst those who came back from Beleriand, that Lord Moruivë’s goal in life was to die, and to die infamous.”

“Why are we searching for _him_ , then?”

“Because he rode with Maglor right until the end, because he rode with my father first, and because we never know what he will chose to do: so he may well be the only one who will betray Maglor’s secret to us, if Moruivë loved my father enough to indulge me.”

So we rode to the Rock, and met two caravans before we reached Prince Carnistir’s former squire. It was late in the evening, but Arien set down, the fires of his camp shone from afar, and our tired mounts went to them like moths to a candle.

The camp was the usual circle of chariots, all painted with bright colors. Each family had one or several wheelhouses, and each adorned them with specific patterns: here, three were bright blue with flocks of white birds; there, another was red, with sunflowers all over. Walls of canvas were pulled between them, encircling the tents, dogs, horses, and people singing loudly around the fire.

And upon a black chariot with red flames sat lean elf with hair white as bones and eyes like dark rubies.

“My my, what strange pups prowl in the night,” the stranger said. He was bare footed, with a flax tunic that must have been bright red one day and was now rather faded, and stood only to crouch on the tip of his toes, right at the edge of his wheelhouse’s top. “What brings you here, strangers? In the middle of nowhere? Did you hear the call of the great white lion? If so, his fur is mine, and I fear you lost your time coming all the way!”

“What we seek is indeed rather pale,” Naryafinwë threw back. “But we shall leave the lions to you. Will you invite us in, Lord Moruivë?”

“Who am I to refuse a prince of the house of Finwë?” Still perched, head tilted like some strange bird, Blood-Eyes gave them a smile with too many teeth. “And his friend, whom I have not been introduced to. Forgive me for looking a little disgraceful, Lady! Had I known my Prince’s son was planning to visit me with such a pretty friend, I would have dressed myself as fancy as I used to whenever I visited the High King in Barad Eithel.”

“I am Vinyarë Aralimë, daughter of Prince Finrod and Amarië the most blessed!”

“And I,” Blood-Eyes said, unfolding and bowing low, though he was still perched up there and looking down on them, “am Moruivë Silmacar, whom they call the Blood-Eyed, Lordling of some burnt grass and horse’s bones in Lothlann, now deep under the sea, son of dead parents, squire of deceased lords, follower of lost princes; and I say you may come in. Most aggravating I may be, but let no one say I let my Prince’s son linger, nor that I made Finwë’s kin sleep where the hyenas skulk!”

And with those words, we were admitted into their circle of wood and canvas.


	5. Part 2: The dry pastures

The next morning, I overslept and missed Blood-Eyes’ departure for his hunt. When I emerged from my tent I found the camp half empty and a note from Naryafinwë telling me not to wander outside of the circle of chariots. A good half of the wanderers had gone; most of the others I found once I perched myself atop a wheelhouse, guarding their spare horses and cattle as they grazed in grass, dogs and slings ready for action. I sat here, chewing on biscuits and honey and listening to the sounds of the pastures.

I do not know, Celebrimbor, what sounds fill you days, wherever you are on the other side of the sea. I have spent most of my life between Valmar, Tirion and Alqualondë. All three are noisy cities in their own ways: bells and waves, markets and choirs, gulls and heated debates. In the pastures the sounds seemed few; and yet, as I watched the horizon waiting for answers, my ears started to pick them apart. There were insects buzzing, unknown birds calling in the horizon, horse neighing and cows, and once in a while laugher erupted in the circle of wagons. A small pack of hyena came sniffing as I was finishing my breakfast and fled as soon as a well-aimed rock landed in their midst. After a little while, I climbed down and joined the few who dealt with menial chores of mending, cleaning and the preparation of food.

All of them were Fëanorian, mostly from the hosts of Celegorm, Maglor, Amrod and Amras. Some had returned to Valinor by way of boats, after all was done and they decided to plead for pardons; others came back by way of death. None were very forthcoming about their past. I understood I knew nothing of their trials, and my ignorance or their shame built a wall they did not wish to breach.

Moruivë Blood-Eyes came back at the start of the afternoon. A fresh pelt hung at the back of his saddle, and his clothes and armor smelled of blood; he wore a huge straw hat with veils of see-through linen hanging from the edges, and the grin of someone who was very pleased with himself. With his return noises filled the camps. Hunters were boasting, telling tales and petting barking dogs. There were horses to water and care for, weapons and fur to clean, food and liquor to be shared.

I retreated into the tent with Naryafinwë. As you may imagine, Celebrimbor, his day had been much more eventful than mine! Moruivë and his scouts tracked the lions, and in the end the great white beast turned on their lord himself! But Moruivë let his stallion flee, twisted in his saddle and fired behind his rump, and three of his arrows went into the lion’s chest before it could catch up! It all sounded very impressive, but I was happy Naryafinwë did not try to chase the lion himself and came back without a scratch.

After our rest, we joined Moruivë for a small feast. The sun was setting and he was still wearing his hat, but also clean clothes with embroideries and beads, in the old fashion of Lothlann. His hair was braided with crimson ribbons that made his ivory skin look even paler.

He offered us a drink, which Naryafinwë took while I did not, because it smelled too strong for my mother to approve.

“So,” Moruivë started, “what brings you at the side of my exiled self? I doubt you came here, in the middle of nowhere, for the sake of my pretty eyes and healthy complexion!”

“Indeed not,” I answered, though I did not know by then that Moruivë’s exile was the result of him following the Fëanorians to the bitter end, and coming in Valinor mostly because everyone was annoyed that he was so unrepentant about it. So like others of the most jaded of the First Age, he was tucked in some place where he could bloody his teeth and offend no one. Some went under the shadows of the wood of Oromë and prowled under the trees, other wandered at the edges of Mandos’ halls, or in the far west, where the tears of Nienna could perhaps wash their faults away.

But though Naryafinwë was aware of all of this, I did not know Blood-Eyes, and he merely sounded strange and a little unhinged to me. So I said with candor: “We are searching for a boy who used to be Prince Maglor’s pupil, in the early times of the Long Peace. We do not know his name, nor that of his mother; merely that he was the son of a soldier called Eithruin who used to ride with Maglor.”

Moruivë studied my face for a while, as if trying to pick what my intent was. Then he either decided it was no great secret to spill, or that he did not care, and told me: “His name is Alwedon – Fortunate One, in your tongue.” Then his red stare focused somewhere close to the campfire, yet not quite. “It was an ill-fitting name.”

His remark flew way past me: I had a name! And with a name, surely, I could find more! “How so?” I asked almost happily, unthinkingly. A name!

My investigation was moving forward!

“I need some more liquor, I fear,” Moruivë groaned. He stood, went to pick a skin flask and some roasted meat by the fire. Then he gestured us to follow and climbed atop his wheelhouse, where we had met him the day before. I almost spilled my diner trying to imitate him, but ultimately Naryafinwë and I were sitting on the rooftop with fuming, grilled ribs dripping with honey. Moruivë took his time to settle against the pillows, filled a small tin glass almost to the brim, took a sip and then, as he ate, started to talk.

“I came to the Gap of Maglor,” he said, “after the Glorious Battle had been fought and won – when was that? Fifty or sixty years after the sun, I think. I rode under Prince Caranthir’s banner then and girl, that battle!” He rose his glass. “You two cannot understand, how days such as those can be the best of one’s life. Well, they were, and I wanted more. Caranthir’s lands were beautiful, rich, all that, and he indulged me. Maglor was not the only one who took to raising the kids of dead vassals. Well. That and with _those looks_ , we did look the part whenever we entered somewhere. It was great, to be honest. I was a fast and reliable rider, so when I was not being lazy at Lake Helevorn, I would ride to wherever Caranthir or the High Prince Maedhros wanted be to carry their letters.”

Moruivë cut his food as he spoke, and sometimes, in between sentences, popped some crispy meat into his mouth from the tip of his knife.

“But see… after a while, things quieted down. Especially in Thargelion. There were the occasional orc raids, yes, but from the mountains, and you do not ride horses in the mountains. So, to be honest: I grew bored. I liked horses. Had won Fingolfin’s high race when I was younger than you. And I liked to kill things, so its was very logical that I would move to a place where I could shoot at things while riding – hence, not mountains. So I asked to go from Caranthir to Maglor, and my wish was granted.

So now, I was posted in Lothlann, in the middle of the Long Peace – which was alright, because in the Gap, the peace was never quite that peaceful. I usually got the hardest, riskiest postings. Slept many nights smelling the clouds from Angband, kept watch sometimes when there were some odd lights from up north. Then I graduated. Are you planning to go to Tirion’s university, young Princess? I heard that is what people did in Valinor before I was born, and do now. Well, I graduated from spoilt squire to _that rider with a death wish_. Most Sindar in our ranks had families now. Many Noldor as well, and things and people to live for. They agreed to take their turn at the most dangerous outposts, of course, but most of them did not wish to flirt with death as I used to. But I, I was the cursed blood-eyed child born during Alqualondë’s worst party ever, and as Prince Turgon, peace on his boring soul, used to say before he chickened out to his hidden valley: _ill-omens! Omens of Doom and Death! And probably more Doom._ ”

Moruivë raised his glass with a dry laugh, and he did not look like he drank to the _peace_ of Turgon’s soul.

“Alwedon was not like me. He was dedicated and brave, sure. But he had been born, poor kid, when we Noldor looked like we were _winning_. He sounded like we could hold the Siege forever and maybe even win one day! Hopeful kid wanted a family. I think he was courting someone, in the rocky lands between the Gap and Himring. Well, you know how that ends. In the last ten years before the battle, Maglor started pulling away all civilian population from Lothlann. The wanderers, the villages, the cows and the sheep went to Thargelion, Himlad and the south. At first everyone expected something to happen. Perhaps they had some intel about an attack? They probably did, but the attack did not come in the first year, nor in the fifth, and by the time of the tenth, some warriors were moaning about Maglor being overly cautious and their families being too far away. Now, girl and boy, this is the time when you take your own drink.”

He filled one little tin glass for Naryafinwë, less than half for me and set them down before us with a small “ting”. Moruivë raised his own glass, waited for us to do the same and drank only once the liquor was burning my tongue. I felt the fire run down my belly and was relieved it was full, or I think I would have retched from how strong it was.

Blood-Eyes laughed as I coughed. It was not a very kind sound. “Think it burns?”

Naryafinwë took the glass from my hands. “The Sudden Flame?”

“Well, it was not _that_ sudden. The Flame started way before the battle – not that we knew. That summer, the summer was exceptionally hot. Lothlann was dry, utterly dry. Then there were dark clouds – the usual foul-smelling ones. That close to Angband we got ash fall, once in a while, as one will get snow fall in Formenos. Nothing unusual. Except that time, when came the hour when the rooster sings, and the sky remained dark. One hour, two, five, and it was midday and the sky was just oddly brown and orange. I was posted at… what tower was that? It was a square one, red bricks. The goats we kept for milk went _crazy_. Who was it who caught a flake in the palm of their hand? do remember them saying: _the ashes are hot today_.

Then the wind started to blow. Not Manwë’s. Morgoth’s winds always descended from the north. Chilling, winter things. Not this time. Those were great hot gush, full of tiny embers, and Lothlann was _dry_. Grass started to catch pretty much everywhere. So now we had no sky, and smoke everywhere, and atop the tower I couldn’t even see the goats – only hear them, poor things. I guess that’s the moment I decided I didn’t mind dying but minded dying stupidly and that we should move out. We did not pack much, a little food but mostly water, let the goats loose and started to ride to the next watchtower – which was sort of easier to find than I thought, because by the time we got there, it was on fire like some great raging candle. So we moved to the next, which was burning too, except now there were _things_ moving in the shadows of the flames – smoke, monsters, our teary eyes losing it? We rode with bells on our harnesses, but the ringing wasn’t loud enough to cover the roar of fires everywhere. Our spare mounts panicked and disappeared one after another – _soldiers_ disappeared one after another. Most of them, I never knew how they died. Some choked, some fell, perhaps some were felled by _things_ , or were trapped in circles or flames or whatever. I could not see my men, only hear the bells of the harnesses – and once I reached the fourth tower, which was not burning because it had been reduced to ashes, there were very few bells left to ring.

As we reached the fifth fort, Lothlann seemed to remember itself. The grass turned green, and though the sky was dark and starless, the air was free of ashes and fumes. A Song of remembrance painted the land as it had been, rather than as it was bound to become; and that Song came from our greatest Singer. It was a battle Maglor could never win – though when his voice and the bells of my steed mingled, for one moment I did believe.

But then I heard, and knew: that no one came behind me, and in the furnace behind all had been lost.

My horse slowed, stumbled, fell and shivered and died. Bloody froth stained his mouth and nostrils and my knees as I cradled his sweat stained head, and I remember I was not quite understanding my mount had gone so far to die of exhaustion now. Then a shadow was upon me – I looked up, and my Prince was looking down.

 _Commander_ , he asked, _where are the riders?_

 _Gone_ , I said, _or else I cannot hear their bells. Can you?_

The illusion that the Gap was still alive shivered, fell and stumbled.

Maglor sang no more, and at last Lothlann was lost.”

I do not know how silence sounds where you live, Celebrimbor; here, in the pastures and with evening descending upon us, it was full of dry, rustling grass. I felt still the burn of the liquor upon my tongue. Its heat spread to my cheeks, and as Arien descended her rays turned everything red: the wheelhouses of wood, the canvas of the tents, and the seemingly never-ending sea of swinging grass.

In the space between the blades, that scratch like paper leaves dancing against each other, I heard the threat of _fire_.

I said nothing. Moruivë sank in his pillows, red eyes focused on the red horizon, and paid us no mind. Was he thinking of his lost companions? Or that he was living in a place so alike Lothlann in its last days? I feared I was going to be sick. Suddenly I could not bear to look at the pastures; yet when I closed my eyes, all I could do was drown in the sounds of grass, and the touch of hot wind against my cheeks. I woke up shivering the night; went back to sleep curled in Naryafinwë’s arms, and still dreamed of a brown, starless sky and the smell of burnt flesh.

Our investigation was in progress; we had a name; that name belonged to someone who was dead.

We left with the next sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new piece of art in this chapter was painted by Lidoshka and it is so amazing!!!! Thank you so much !!!


	6. Part 2: The paper road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new piece of art by Lidoshka has been added in chapter 5! Please check it out and give it a lot of love because it is GORGEOUS!

I managed to shake off the unease of Moruivë’s revelations by the time we reached Tirion. Disappointed and saddened as I been by Alwedon’s death, I still had hope my quest was not vain: a fair amount of time had gone by since the Sudden Flame, and perhaps my cousin had been reembodied and could still be found!

Which is why the first thing we did in Tirion (after having diner, a bath, a proper night of sleep and an enormous breakfast) was to head for Fëanaro’s library.

Long before my birth and before Naryafinwë’s, the library had been Fëanaro’s personal lair, right in the middle of his wing of the palace. His departure had left his very depleted House with a choice: to let the library fall into disuse, sealed like a chest with all its unfinished books, scattered notes, research diaries and rare copies, or open it to anyone who would care to visit it. For fifty years the question remained pending; then Naryafinwë came of age, moved his grandfather’s most intimate writing into the sanctity of his former bedroom, knocked down the walls of the nearby studies of Prince Curufinwë the Younger and Prince Nelyafinwë, and turned the whole thing into a proper, public space for researches. It never became a popular place; first because Fëanaro’s remaining notes were unreadable for most of us, secondly because all the books that were added into the new shelves were about dead people.

Literally.

The first books list the dead of Alqualondë, then those who were taken by grief and storm, whose names were brought back by my grandfather when he returned to Tirion. By the time the books were moved to Fëanaro’s library there were ledgers for the Battle under the Star, the Ice, Lammoth, various skirmishes and the Glorious Battle. I had heard several shelves were full of those never ending lists: of the dead, of the reembodied, of those who went to war and came back.

Does it offend you, Celebrimbor, that your grandfather’s library is used in such a way? Would that offend _him_? That new purpose was decided by Naryafinwë, his heir in Valinor, but he could never consult any of you in Middle Earth.

Anyway! That morning, I entered the library for the first time, for I never needed to consult the books of the dead, and I certainly was not smart or advanced enough in any craft to try to delve into Fëanaro’s own writings! I went past the shelves filled with the macabre lists while Naryafinwë searched for the right books, to the part labelled as smithing, linguistics, geography, astronomy and then: _miscellaneous_. Some of the books were just diaries or papers barely assembled; all had titles, some of which had been added later, either by Naryafinwë, his mother, or by Naryafinwë’s grandfather Rumil.

I read out loud: “ _Thoughts on why master Ratario’s theories are lacking_?”

“Ah! Yes!” Naryafinwë’s voice came from behind the shelves, and I heard him put books on a wooden desk. “That one is mostly Fëanaro ranting and I was tired of finding titles for everything. To be fair, I did track down some of Ratario’s own writing, and some could easily be compiled under the name _Why master Fëanaro Curufinwë is an aggravating child_.”

“ _Of the making of cakes_.”

“He did eat sometimes.”

“ _Letters about rainbows_?”

“Optical consideration mixed with poetry. I had no idea where to put it.”

“ _Of fashion_.”

“Darling, it _is_ called the miscellaneous shelf for a reason – and by the way, my inner title for this one is _Why it could be argued that High Prince Nolofinwë dresses like a glorified potato sack_. Come over?”

I navigated the maze of shelves back to Naryafinwë. He had stacked a fairly impressive pile of books on top of the three only desks of the library, right under the windows that overlooked an abandoned garden.

“Do you want to see something of tremendous historical importance?” he asked me, with a glint in his eyes that promised he would share a great secret with me.

I nodded, approached with my heart beating fast, knowing that the greatest (and most infamous!) of our scholars had spent long hours working in this room. I was almost expecting to be burnt by some stray shards of his essence, or hit by a brilliant thought that could have stuck to the wood.

But Naryafinwë pointed at the desk, said: “Look!”, and I saw nothing. I looked at what his finger was pointing at, nothing more than wood covered with an old ink stain, and then looked at this freckled face. He insisted: “Don’t you see?”

“What?”

I saw a desk, and it actually looked like a very normal desk.

“My _something_ of tremendous historical importance!”

“No!”

“Look,” he repeated as he tapped his finger on this dark blotch. “This, I am almost certain, is an authentic ink stain by the Great Fëanaro Curufinwë himself – as this was his personal desk, and no one else used it…”

“Wait! You mean _this_ is your great historical thing!”

“Well, it is! Just like the book about cakes. And the thousands of little things I stored in his bedchamber because they were too intimate. Sketches, letters to his friends and children, old toys… He cannot have been made only of burnt boats, life changing inventions and loud political opinions.”

“Do you wish he were back?”

I did not know if I did. No matter how big your grandfather had been, Celebrimbor, he had been gone for a long time for as long as I could remember, and I did not feel like Valinor lacked something. Perhaps older people did, those who knew Tirion when the old king Finwë was still here, but to me Fëanaro was a thing of the past.

Naryafinwë nodded gravely. He separated the books into two piles, one for me on Fëanaro’s old desk, one for himself on the table to my right. “Some days I do. I have lived for too long in his shadow not to want to know the elf who cast it.”

“Some days.”

“Well. There are days when I just wonder what will happen, once one of the older princes of my House returns. I am used to being _the_ local Fëanorian!”

He did not elaborate, and did not need to. My own life is so much simpler! My father is High Prince, and Finwë Arafinwë’s heir to the throne in Tirion, but my line is not exactly known for being querulous. His, on the other hand… you know that House better than I do, Celebrimbor. Do you think they would want to yank the title of High Prince from Naryafinwë?

We dived into the books.

The ledgers of the dead are long lists, written down from what the Maiar of Mandos tell us, and what they tell us is always organized in chronological order. That means that if you know when someone died, you have a fair chance of finding them quickly – but if your quarry fell during the Sudden Flame or the Innumerable Tears, laboring through hundreds of pages is to be expected.

So, we labored.

After two hours of rows and rows of names, we went to the garden for some fresh hair. No one had cared for it after the Darkening, until flowers, grass and trees started to overrun the place; after that Naryafinwë had decided he liked it that way. We walked slowly between the last flowers of summer to the side of the pond. Grass grows between the tiles, but there are still multicolored carps circling under the curtains of weeping willows. I sat first and let my feet dangle into the water; Naryafinwë sat by my side, and for a while we remained here holding hands.

Our second session was as fruitless as the first. After a while, I got tired of all those names and lost myself in the contemplation of the dark ink blotch that may or may not be of great historical significance. Those name lists were important, without a doubt, but after the first hundreds, the heart dulls and it becomes difficult to remember they were _people_. It did not help that some looked like they showed up several times, as if even the Maiar of Mandos had been confused by the sheer numbers, and Naryafinwë seemed to have several lists I had in my own ledgers. Yet even with those mistakes, I had no doubts the battle had been a catastrophe for all of you who lived through it.

I almost missed what I was searching for, small as that single name was between Fëalasso Leptafinyë Nandetamo Ganoron and Autarë Vaina Nyellondil Glirdis. Like all of those born in Valinor and died after Sindarin became widespread, they had come to Mandos with many names to record; Alwedon, as was the fashion for the Sindar and not for the Noldor, came with only one.

And in front of his name were a few words, written by a different hand: _reembodied in the 538 th year of the First Age_.

I blinked, and then looked again as if I could not believe that I had found him; I had found him, and he was alive! I jumped in my chair, and then jumped out of my chair with a delighted shriek. Then I remember I was dancing with Naryafinwë, from joy, and almost collided with a shelf.

We found him! We found him and he could only be close!

I was so elated I thought of nothing else as the afternoon ended. I braided my hair in the way of the wanderers of the pastures, wondering if Alwedon had worn the same plait and, perhaps, was still wearing them. What was he doing? Perhaps he was preparing himself for dinner, as I was, and his fingers and mine were mirrors, working gold and ebony hair. And as dinner itself unfolded, I paid little mind to what was told around the table. Grandfather Arafinwë and my great-aunt Findis were discussing the coming art season, but that was in spring and autumn was still young, and whole thing was intellectual enough that it sounded a bit too pedantic for me. So I only emerged from by dreams when Arafinwë finally noticed I had said close to nothing since the beginning of the meal and asked me what was on my mind.

“I was thinking about Alwedon,” I answered; I did not think of providing context, as I had been so deep into my thoughts I could not pull anything clearer on short notice. Yet as I was thinking I was being cryptic, Finwë Arafinwë’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the recognition in his eyes added a new piece to the puzzle.

My grandfather _knew_ Alwedon – or knew about him.

“How do you know Alwedon?” he asked. “He was gone long before you were born, and is just a footnote in the books of the War of Wrath now… since when are you so passionate about History?”

Now, Celebrimbor, you should not think my grandfather was being dismissive, though his words may _sound_ that way on paper – but they did not when he voiced them. He was merely curious that I, who was always very grounded in the present and did not care much for things of times (and lands) long gone, was suddenly bringing up a name he deemed rather obscure.

As for I, I felt a rock dump into my belly, and it was a pretty icy rock. Gone! Gone how? Gone when?

“What happened to him?”

My voice was fragile, my disappointment clear, and my question did nothing to dispel Arafinwë’s surprise. Still, he answered me truthfully, if a little somberly: “He remained in Middle Earth at the end of the war. He claimed he did not wish to leave, even as Beleriand sunk and the lands of his lands could not be reclaimed… though I suspected he wanted to hunt down the kinslayers to avenge his comrades. Did I approve? No. But neither was I going to bring him back to Valinor by force.”

It struck me then that my grandfather assumed I knew _why_ Alwedon would wish to hunt Maglor and Maedhros, and what Alwedon had been in Middle Earth for – and that meant that information must be available somewhere. I could have asked Arafinwë for an answer… but I had gone so far, more or less on my own and with Naryafinwë; that last piece we could find by ourselves.

The next morning, we headed to the New University of Tirion.

It had been built back when a young generation (which is not young anymore, as it is that of your father and mine) started to complain that the University of Tirion (the old one) was encroached in its old ways, and had no room for discourse that was not the usual Fëanaro&Friends versus Ye Old Guard. Oddly enough the New University had actually been built by Fëanaro himself, despite the fact that he never taught, nor ever wished to teach here, a fact that is still commemorated by a statue of him with a seashell and a harp. Do not ask me why he was sculpted that way: it must have been widely known at the time, for no explanation was given on the statue, which has been stored in the History section of the library ever since it was removed from the great hall.

Naryafinwë and I spent several days into the books of the War of Wrath. We could easily have asked Arafinwë to just tell us, or any other veteran of the war, but surely your must understand that the quest felt much more like achievement if we labored by ourselves.

We pieced the last of the story in that library, sipping hot tea under the window. We sat in the old, comfortable armchairs, surrounded by books and notes, and told each other of our findings of the day.

Alwedon left Mandos in the 538th year of the First Age. It is an odd date, for during that tragic year the Fëanorions stormed the Havens of Sirion and made of with two children who probably looked a lot like Alwedon himself. The History of our people do not recall what Alwedon did in the four years that separate the third kinslaying from Earendil’s arrival in Valinor – nor does it recall what he thought when the tale was told in our lands. Did he know Maglor was his father? Did he feel shame for his actions?

In Finwë Arafinwë’s memoirs of the War of Wrath, there is a paragraph dealing with the reembodied veterans of Beleriand, the ones he allowed to join his army and the ones he did not. He affirms he took no kinslayers in his army, and refused as well all of those who did not turn back upon hearing the Doom of Mandos. Those who had been born in Beleriand, however, those he refused to hold responsible for Alqualondë; and since all of those who had been reembodied at that point had died during the Sudden Flame or the Unnumbered Tears, they were unstained by Doriath and Sirion.

In several annals, memoirs and essays, we found that those veterans served as counsellors, scouts and officers to strengthen an army that had no battle experience. Alwedon himself emerged once in a while in the narrative: here as a commander of light cavalry, here as the chief of scouting units, and once in a mounted archery contest that was held during Tulkas’s feast. And then there was a last event until his complete disappearance.

The theft of the Silmarilli.

The army, then, had been hundreds of thousands strong; and of all people, Eonwë had picked _Alwedon_ to guard the Silmarilli.

With the results you, Celebrimbor, surely cannot ignore.

Naryafinwë and I let silence grow thick with that conclusion. The books only told us that Alwedon, alone of the guards, survived the last assault of his father and uncle. Was this sheer luck, or had Maglor not sank far enough to murder his own son? Did Alwedon truly hunt him down for revenge, and did he do so with full knowledge of his parentage? There is no way for us to know from where we stand.

We set the books back on their shelves and our cloaks around our shoulders, for it was raining that day. Tomorrow we will set for Alqualondë, Naryo and I, and then take a ship for Tol Eressëa. We mean to find a ship that will carry this letter to Numenor and then to you, wherever you are in Middle Earth.

What you shall do with this story, Celebrimbor, is up to you.

With all our love, and in hope of meeting your one day,

Vinyarë Aralimë Findaratiel and Curuquar Naryafinwë Carnistirion

PS: Attached to this letter is a portrait of us! Send us one of you if you can? Love - Vinyarë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But but but... how come it ends that way!
> 
> They did not find him!
> 
> Well.
> 
> WELL.
> 
> There will be a third arc set in Middle Earth. Will Celebrimbor receive the letter? What will he do with if he does? What happened to Alwedon and Maglor? Stay tuned, because a new piece of art will be revealed in the new arc!
> 
> Comments are very welcome and please, send lot of love for the new piece visible at the beginning of chapter 5!
> 
> EDIT : The amazing art at the end of the chapter was commissionned to the wonderful ArlenianChronicles!


	7. Part 3: Dear sundered kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone!
> 
> We start a new part with a new narrator! 
> 
> Enormous thanks to all the kind readers who commented on part 2 sofar: FirstAmazon, Mangacrack, Angelica-Ramses, Starlightwalking, Mfantasia, and of course the AMAZING Lidoshka who added a wonderful piece of art to chapter 5!
> 
> I hope you will like this new arc which, like the first two, will have 3 chapters... and then there will be an epilogue, and the end! Enjoy <3

To Princess Vinyarë Aralimë Findaratiel and Prince Curuquar Naryafinwë Carnistirion,

Your letter reached Lindon in summer and languished for a long time before I could open it. The leaves have yellowed, and even started to fall in place. The chill, I fear, may be that of a fell winter. It is very damp where I write those words. We have established ourselves on the bank of the Bruinen. Evening mist is everywhere, touches everything, like deadly fingers trying to reach for my very bones.

Forgive me, my sundered cousins. Surely you expected words of Alwedon and here am I, boring you with tales of the weather, and the sounds of the river on the rock. I admit these considerations would bore me too if I were living in Valinor with you. The Pastures of Yavanna sound very appealing. I would trade your lions and hyenas for my orcs.

Back to your letter. Your letter reached Lindon thanks to a Numenorean ship captain. Middle aged, grey threads in his beard, impeccable quenya. He went from place to place asking for Prince Celebrimbor, who is no Prince but a Lord, for reasons of his own. Mayhap this should be your new leisure quest: to understand why your cousin does not wish to wear the title. The captain. The captain went from place to place until the letter was handed down to me. The Numenorean looked sufficiently impressed by my armor, the standards flying in the wind and the bells of our horses. Quite understandable as no man saw a full army of elves leaving for war in more than a thousand years.

I bore your letter. I am sorry to say, Prince, Princess, that I would probably not have bothered had I not been curious that a letter came to us from Valinor. I expected some great secret that could, mayhap, change the course of the war. I was fooling myself, mostly. If anything could have changed the course of the war I would not be there freezing my fingers off by the loud waters.

You shall forgive my rambling. I feel entitled to some less than focused moaning. Considering that I cannot speak aloud, it is better to imagine you two listening. Afterall I did read your letter, even if it was not my letter.

I fear I have been extremely rude.

Not that I care. Considering what little trials you must endure, on your side of the sea. A little rambling will do no harm.

We left Lindon at the beginning of summer for Eregion. We made good speed. We were late, but looking back, I cannot think of a single instant we wasted. And yet we were late. Should I have chosen other paths? Let my infantry behind and ridden hard with my cavalry? Would I have reached Celebrimbor in time to hand him your letter?

Picture him, Prince, Princess: tall, dark of hair, grey eyed, high cheekbones. He favored cold colors. Some whispered that Fëanor and Curufin had not, and Celebrimbor was trying not to look too much like them. Some said the resemblance was stark, others did not. I knew neither Fëanor nor Curufin, so for the sake of you picturing the scene, we will admit Celebrimbor indeed look like them. Take a break from this letter, seek a portrait, take it in, add grey and muted blue.

Back to our scene. We are standing at the gateway of Ost-in-Edhil. The last time I came, the door was intricate ironwork, so fine a battering ram would have broken it in one hit. Now, war is upon us, and the door has been reinforced with steel and spells. So much for the universal welcome of Celebrimbor. But we are friends, so the door swings open, and Celebrimbor is armored but smiles.

“My Lord,” I say, “I have a letter for you, from Valinor.”

Let us pretend there is no war. We sit in Celebrimbor’s study, by the fire, sipping wine. He reads slowly.

I do not know him well enough to guess what he would say.

So much for the scene.

Now, the truth.

We ride to Ost-in-Edhil. We do not reach Ost-in-Edhil. I do not hand the letter to anyone, because my thoughts are elsewhere. There are crows in the sky. Circling. Croaking, mocking, spying, I suppose. We have been seen. Not that we are very discreet. There is smoke. We advance. The next morning a battered group of riders reaches us. What remains of Celebrimbor’s army.

Their leader is a veteran called Lindir. The quivers hanging from his saddle are almost empty. They must have been the scouts of Eregion.

“Lord Elrond” he starts, “the time is too late for Ost-in-Edhil, but not too late for you. Turn back now, for the field is lost!”

Who was I, to settle for cowardice? I, a scion of Luthien and Fingolfin, who faced Darkness with the bravery of fools?

We ignored him, rode, defeated our enemies, saved Celebrimbor, and of course nothing happened that way, we did not save him, we did not defeat them, though we did ride and I did ignore Lindir’s warnings.

Luthien won. Fingolfin did not.

He did not run away.

But he died rather stupidly.

I am rambling again. All of that to say we came, we tried, we lost, we ran, and now we are here, hidden in the crook of a river at the entrance of a valley that may be defensible. My battered army and I are looking rather dejected. I do not think the Numenorean captain would be impressed.

My councilors have been very supporting. “You cannot win every battle”, nod nod, “sometimes the odds are in your disfavor and nothing can be done”, yes yes, I knew the First Age, thank you very much. I was not born between Valmar, Tirion and Alqualondë, and my formative years have been a blend of massacres, blood, mud and loss. I just wish that for once when a war comes my way, I could have a Glorious Battle instead of a bloody Nirnaeth on my hands.

We are not dead. Let us have hope.

Who am I kidding.

Why did Alwedon even wish to come back here? If I were dead, I probably would not. I would not be freezing in shame, hiding in the woods. Not that we are truly hidden. The enemy knows where we are. I was told to get some rest while Glorfindel and Lindir oversee the construction of the palisade. Are they hoping I will shine like my father’s star after a good night of rest? How am I supposed to sleep? We are making a refuge. A haven. Ah, Elbereth be praised, I more than anyone knows how great havens have been for me so far.

Back to Celebrimbor.

Who should have received your letter.

Celebrimbor is now on his way to Mandos. I hope he is. Here is some schoolwork for you, Princess: what about the rumors that Morgoth and Sauron could catch fallen spirits and enslave them? Did any of your scholars in the New University of Tirion (or the Old One, I will not discriminate) write essays about that? Can I at least hope Celebrimbor is on his way and this mess was his endgame defeat, and he will be reborn at some point to marvel at some Fëanorian ink stain, or should I fear the worst happened to him?

This is going to be such a good night.

Needless to say, I am not going to go to sleep.

Which is why I opened the letter. Celebrimbor is not there to do so, anyway, he will not miss it. And in the end I do not know… of the two of us, which one would have been the most baffled by Maglor having a child?

I am not in the mood to think about Maglor.

It is extremely impolite of me to have opened that letter. Yet it could have contained something, from Valinor, that could have helped us win. It does not. Obviously. I will not lie to myself. I knew all along victory was not spelled in your message. I had no good reasons except that I am tired.

Should I tell you what they did with Celebrimbor?

Perhaps I will tell you, after they do the same to me, after my name is added to the ledgers in Fëanor’s library, after the Valar see fit to give me a body back.

I will walk out of the Gardens of Lorien and ask: “Pray, good sir, would you happen to know where I could find Princess Vinyarë Findaratiel? Prince Naryafinwë Carnistirion?”. Then I will visit your, and your pretty, peaceful home, and sit, and tell you everything in words damned Moruivë himself would find offensive.

Because. I am going to be honest, lost kin of mine.

I do not think this letter will ever reach you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> Were you expecting this? Are you sad? Are you ANGRY like poor salty Elrond?
> 
> I swear next time, Elrond will be more articulate. And perhaps talk about Maglor.
> 
> Comments are very appreciated as always, feel free to chat with me, I love lengthy discussions!


	8. Part 3: Old songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some art update before you start the chapter!
> 
> Lidoshka made a fourth piece of art for Salt Road! Go check it in chapter 5, "the dry pastures", because it's absolutly AMAZING and I am 1000% in love with it!
> 
> You can also go to DeviantArt to leave a comment on her third painting: [The grasslands](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/the-grasslands-856301081)! It's also displayed in chapter 5!
> 
> I also ordered ArlenianChronicles for [a portrait of Vinyarë and Naryafinwë](https://arlenianchronicles.tumblr.com/post/630838255818080256/vinyar%C3%AB-and-naryafinw%C3%AB-commissioned-by-the)! Please give it love on Tumblr, and go check it at the end of chapter 6! The portrait was sent to Celebrimbor by Vinya at the end of her arc.

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

I am happy to say I am not dead. Since my last letter, we repelled one weak attack that ended with the death of eleven archers, a disgraceful pile of orc corpses on the other side of the Bruinen, and the other side deciding that building their own palisades was better than another assault.

That was twenty days ago.

Looks like we are here to stay.

We built no less than three palisades between the river and our new settlement. For now it has no name, except “the valley”, but it has a long house where we can gather to sleep, eat and seek distraction. Some of us came with a few card games or dices, others have rudimentary instruments. Lindir lost his in Ost-in-Edhil but was quick to make a flute for himself. He is playing almost every night. I do not stay, because some of the tunes he plays remind me of Amon Ereb.

Thanks to you and your letter, I have not been getting a lot of sleep recently, as I keep dreaming of the good old times. Of grass. I do not have good old memories of grass, and those are often wet, not dry. I also dreamt of Moruivë. I do not know what I expected of him, but somehow, the Valar coming up with what must look to him like extended holidays is kind of jarring.

Oh, yes, mayhap that is an unexpected admission. I know Blood-Eyes and his charming ways.

I cannot guess if my story would sound interesting to you, sundered kin of mine. You were searching for Maglor’s blood son. Not that I am his son in any way. I strongly believe anyone loses the right to call a child son when he forces his mother to jump off a cliff.

Bear with me. You have, Naryafinwë, Vinyarë, all the time in the world and I fled Lindir’s tunes to a secluded, barely lit hut. I think you owe me to listen.

Grass first.

My oldest memory is of grass. It is unfortunate that my mind chose somehow to remember that rather than my parents, but the blame is all on the Fëanorians and not on myself, I suppose. The grass stuck. We lived in a house atop a cliff that was also the light house, and the light house was also the highest guard tower. Other than that cliff, that rose above the see like some lonely claw, everything around the Havens was flat and swampy. Miles and miles and miles of grass so high even an adult would get lost in them. When you walked in their midst, all you could see was the spongy (if not flooded) ground and shifting walls of grass, grass, and still more grass.

I suppose in Valinor, one would feel adventurous, venturing into those infinite forest of dull blades. Not so in Sirion. We had scouts, guard towers, all sorts of gulls watching for us, but parents did not let their children wander (not that there were a lot of us, as unlike the people of the Gap, even the Sindar and the Nandor living with us were too depressed to sire anything).

(My parents were the exception.)

(But they had a Silmaril, mayhap It helped.)

We did not wander because we feared orcs. We had the gulls, the towers and the scouts, but with all this grass one could never be sure. The grass was outside the palisade, and it was a no-child’s land.

There was grass in Amon Ereb too.

Not the same grass. It must have looked like that of the Gap. Maglor told me that at some point, wheat had been growing all over the fortress and the land had been golden. Not so when I lived here: just a field, here and there. Most of the food came from cattle, hunting and foraging. Here the gaze carried, and we could have seen orcs from afar, but we were never allowed to wander.

“For your safety,” Maglor said.

Maedhros said nothing.

Moruivë smiled. With his blood-red eyes under the shadow of his wide hat, he looked far more sinister than Maglor did. “For your safety,” he repeated.

I do not think he meant it quite the same way as Maglor. Or perhaps he did, but Moruivë never pretended we were anything but hostages, and we just misread Maglor until we were old enough to understand our situation.

We only left the fortress to ride. Maglor was our usual teacher for our letters, music and the sword, but despite his great talent with horse, he always flatly refused to instruct us. We asked, because Moruivë was a pain, Maglor refused, and whenever he did, Maedhros had that look on his face that meant he had opinions. Maglor would catch the look and then affirm (because Maedhros talked with his eyes and Maglor with his mouth, and they had whole conversations of Maedhros staring and Maglor answering his silent remaks): “You cannot understand.”

For a while, these words were a great mystery to us. What was there to understand? That Maglor cared for us? That he wanted to teach us music but not how to ride a horse?

So we did what sounded the most logical to us: we asked Moruivë, once, while we were walking our horses around the fortress. Because of all the people Moruivë was the only one who cared not for our age, wellbeing, or for anything really, and that meant we could hope for an honest answer.

How amusing, Naryafinwë, that your quest for answers led you to he who was often our own source.

His smirk was sinister under his wide straw hat. “Has anyone ever told you the story of Maedhros’ twins?”

We were grown up (or so we thought), so we just said “no” and asked what the story was.

Needless to say, we did not sleep well that night, nor the next one or the one after, and the morning that followed, Maglor’s scandalized shouts filled the halls. Things like: “How dare you! To say such things to children! What kind of tutor does that! How dare you!”

And Moruivë answers were always the same (because that was not the first quarrel, nor the last): “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

He would shrug.

Maglor would explode.

We wouldn’t see Moruivë for a while.

Then he would come back and take us riding, shrug and say: “Well, who do they have anyway? Beggars can’t be choosers.” Then he would tell us about the scouting he did while he waited for Maglor to cool down, and if we begged really hard, he would speak of the halls he visited as a messenger and the dead princes of our line.

Now, I wonder if Moruivë was wrong. Well, not always. Perhaps Maedhros truly could not understand why Maglor wanted to keep us, because he had lost his own redemption twins. Yet this has little to do with Maglor’s very specific refusal to take us anywhere near horses.

 ~~Did we look like Alwedon~~ Maglor is gone. I should probably go to sleep rather than ponder about such things. There are some who say that to understand is to walk half the path of forgiveness. It is hard enough that he tried to be ~~kind~~ decent with us, even if it was all for the sake of his own guilt.

Here. Those thoughts, they are what the dreams have been pestering me about.

Let them leave me in peace.

***

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

We had our first snow today. It is good that we managed to build enough during the three months we have spent here, and cut enough firewood not to freeze. I am more concerned about food. We foraged as much as we could in the valley, and found some places where we can fish in the Bruinen out of the range of orc’s bows, but…

Why am I telling you this? You two never went hungry. You would not understand. Forgive my lack of warmth tonight. Whenever I look at the portrait your sent me, see how happy your look, think about how miserable I am right now, I wonder what would have happened if any of you had been born in my place. And I… well. Let us be honest, I could not have been born in Valinor.

The good piece of news is that the nightmares have stopped, more or less. Naryafinwë, did you know your hair color is the exact shade of Maedhros’? Thanksfully, Maedhros is less annoying than Maglor and Moruivë. He never bothered with us. Mayhap he believed it was unhealthy or twisted to show affection to hostages. Is that why his presence in my dreams is like speckles of rust, and not at all like Maglor’s domineering echoes?

The bad piece of news is that I quarreled with Lindir.

Yesterday, he was playing (again) one of those tunes I remember from Amon Ereb. Yesterday, I was neither in the mood to secretly grit my teeth and pretend I did not mind, nor was I in a mood to go back to my cold room. So I took him aside and once we were outside I asked: “Do you not think your choices of songs may be offending?”

“Offending?” He repeated, with a tone that was halfway between asking for clarification and guarded.

“Do you not know where those songs come from?” The notes still lingered into the back of my mind, those from Lindir’s flute and those from Maglor’s harp. “Do you not think there are people in this company who may not want to be reminded of them?”

“Them?”

“Yes!” His question annoyed me, and he did not look impressed by my attempt to lecture him. “Do I need to spell out what the Fëanorians did to my family?”

“No. Yes. Yes. No.”

I stared.

He stared back, and clarified: “No, I do not think my songs are offending. Yes, I know where they are coming from. Yes, I know some people may be displeased. No, you do not need to tell me about the kinslayers. And no, I will not stop singing them.”

“Why?” I asked with more heat than I should have. At Gil-Galad’s court, no one would have rebutted me so harshly; in our valley, no one did either. But here I was, feeling like I was an awkward teenager again and Maglor found some fault in me! “Why would you want to keep singing songs that displease your audience?”

“They please me. And you are not the audience, my lord, you are just one person. No one else complained.”

“Because they do not know where you got those songs!”

“And you do?” Lindir emitted a dismissive “tss”. I felt the tip of my ears grow red. “You are aware, I suppose, that not all the song the Fëanorian ever sung were composed by them? My songs are from the North Sindar. My people. Who sang them in secret long before Fëanor came upon our shores.” 

I was at lost of what to say. I admit, my sundered kin, that I did not care much where the songs came from, as long as Lindir stopped. It is enough that you wrote to me to awaken old grievances: should my own companions harass me?

He is right, of course. I spoke out of line; my thoughts and my behavior were selfish. Still are. No proper leader does this. I should not be disappointed that he went back to the hall and started to play the offending song one more time while I stood outside. I was behaving like a child, and got chided like a child.

Snowflakes drifted in the air.

I hate what this siege is turning me into.

***

Dear cousins from very far away,

I am fishing and my feet are freezing! Today is my day off, with Glorfindel taking care of commanding everything that needs to be commanded. I went off early this morning to climb one of the mountain paths that, after many turns, leads to a small lake. I am not even sure it deserves to be called as such. It is just a place where the Bruinen rests for a bit before it rushes again. The lake is frozen in places. The spot is beautiful and very calm.

Our orcish neighbors are not very pleased by winter either. We had no attack in a full month, not even the usual rocks engraved with insults they send us with slings. It is a pity because they never do actual damages and some of them are quite imaginative (am I becoming like Finrod with his questionable tastes? Well, at least I am not flirting with

***

Dear cousins from very far away,

I could not finish my last letter, as someone managed to come to the lake to interrupt my quiet time and help with the fishing. Is that because I was speaking ill of Finrod and some power of fate decided this could not be? I do not know, but I think Lindir and I may be at peace again.

He sang a fishing tune. As the name gives away, it is a North Sinda song to catch fishes. They used to sing it by lake Mithrim.

He also gave me lyrics, written with coal on birch bark. There was no melody attached, but I have the feeling I already know the music quite well, though Maglor never sang while he played that song. I am a little annoyed that Lindir came to make peace with this offensive offering. I, however, am not a sulking child. I will not immediately throw it into the fire. Someone must let go of this quarrel first, and that will be me, for I am a wise and forgiving leader.

***

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
I hear a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, of a longing to believe  
That all things can be renewed.  
So I raise my voice once more,  
To withstand this storm,  
I raise my voice once more,  
To summon bravery!

There were no paths to follow,  
No guide to warn me, no warrior to fend off  
The terror that took my hand  
When shadows whispered: hope is too far away!  
But I started to sing, was that my choice?  
After each fall, the songs came to me,  
I sang, like a surprised child.  
Was it instinct, or a moment of fury?  
To sing, to survive, to express, to exist!  
To sing is to refuse to bow!

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
You hear a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, of a longing to believe  
That all things can be renewed.  
So you raise your voice once more,  
To withstand this storm,  
You raise your voice once more,  
To summon bravery!

When did we understand?  
Songs are in our hearts,  
To lift us after each fall,  
To guide us beyond the mist!  
When life punishes us, music consoles us  
When did that flute start to sing?  
When did its notes become our breaths?  
When did music start to lead us?  
I sang what was taken from me,  
I sang to find my way, to wander, to exist!

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
We hear a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, of a longing to believe  
That all things can be renewed.  
So we raise our voices once more,  
To withstand this storm,  
We raise our voices once more,  
To summon bravery!

***

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

I have not written to you in a full year. I am writing now because it has been a full year. We are still stuck in our valley. I think Sauron has more or less stopped to care about us and is trying to crush Gil-Galad’s force before he commits more troop to our refuge.

Our valley is now self-sufficient, though we are not living a life of luxury. The orcs’s last attack is three months old but they found new ways to offend us: they throw parties where we can see but not shoot them. Last month they also brought soldiers from the King’s army to mount on pikes. They were already dead and we got used to the sight far too easily. I have a small collection of the best pebbles engraved with gross orcish jokes.

I think I am getting used to all of this.

This is not a good thing.

What does that mean? That I am not smart and talented enough to find a way out? To be a leader? That I am too insignificant for Sauron to come after me? That I am starting to rust the same way Maedhros rusted? Was he not an outstanding prince, in the beginning? It was hard to believe when Elros and I lived with him. He barely talked. When he did, his words were short and colorless. Nothing seemed to stir his wrath or to cause him joy. I am not that far gone, I know. I know, I am alarmed for nothing. I am probably less rusty than I used to be when Maglor send us away. I think I may just have become too used to a good life in Lindon.

This siege is becoming extremely boring.

And winter in this valley is horrible. We barely get any direct sunlight, since the cliffs on the side of the valley hide Arien most of the day. Next spring, if we are still here, I want to build a new hall on of the slope of the valley. I need to decide if I want more light in the morning or in the afternoon.

Lindir started to play his horrible song again. Do you believe it? He even asked me if I would like to sing it. Does he not know I do not sing? Everyone seems to believe Luthien’s grandchild, raised by Maglor, would be some singing genius.

Well, I am not.

Elros was the one who started to mess with Maglor’s singing classes. We were young teenagers and we were starting to understand what had happened to us. I was sullen and withdrawn, and Elros was angry. One day he decided he had enough of Maglor playing good-father-teacher-goaler with us and blew forcefully in his flute, so that it emitted a high, screeching sound. He did it again, and again, messed up with every instrument Maglor tried to put into his hands and sang like a donkey braying, until Maglor could have it no more. Then I was all alone with the best music private teacher in the known world.

And I stopped to sing entirely when he threw us out, after the Silmaril appeared in the sky. One night, we were mapping the stars; the next morning, Moruivë took us to hunt. I found odd that Maglor came to check on our saddles and that we had everything we needed for a hunting trip. I also found odd that Moruivë glanced at Maedhros’ window, atop the main tower, and was not calling out Maglor’s strange mood.

It was only when Moruivë started to cut all the Fëanorian marks off our clothes and his hunters started to build a beacon atop a small cliff that we understoud.

We had never tried to run away. To where? Orcs avoided Amon Ereb like the plague, but they roamed everywhere around the brother’s lands. Outside the walls were no child’s lands, I remembered… and Maglor and Maedhros would have found us.

We had never tried to run away.

We had never expected we could.

And now, Moruivë was making us.

“Do you think they will take you back, after that?” I threw at him, because I could not admit to myself that Maglor could be complicit to this. Surely, this was another of Moruivë atrocious jokes or fits of madness.

I felt my blood curl when his red eyes dove into mine, and he told me, with a crooked smile: “Darling, there is a reason they always take me back, don’t you think? I slaughtered your people for them. Twice. I do obey. When it matters.” He got into the saddle, and while his men did the same, leaving us only with our packs and weapons and no mount, he added: “Please, be bright sweetlings, do not make me kick you to keep you from following. Cirdan’s ships come here all the time. Just wait.”

And then he was off.

I was half tempted to run after him, except Moruivë was definitely the kind of person who would kick us to ensure we would not.

He was right: Cirdan’s ship found us by the evening.

We were free, but all I felt was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Only one chapter left for the Elrond arc (but I think it's going to be a BIG chapter because I have *things* to fit in there). I hope you enjoyed the read! If you did... please let me know \o/
> 
> The song is a heavily modified translated version of Derrière le brouillard by Grand Corps Malade and Louane. You can find the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3XrpIxHHLE


	9. Part 3: Caught in amber

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

A whole year flew since my last letter! We now have seven palisades on our side of the river, and the orcs have two on theirs. We live our lives watching each other. There have been no attacks. We are wary of this lack of aggression, expecting our enemies to break this strange peace at any time.

We do interact with the orcs, somewhat. They still throw parties and we do the same. Theirs are a debauchery of food: they like to roast wild pigs and cows in view of our palisades, danse around the fire to the sounds of war drums, and we suspect them of having some kind of theatrical events with painted masks. We have not spotted anything that looks like Finrod’s Shadow. I cannot say if they hide or if they went extinct with the War of Wrath.

Our parties involve less food and more refine music. We have only three string instruments, which is unfortunate, but many flutes, drums, and of course voices. The first three times the orcs flocked to their palisades to jeer and try to drown our voices with insults. Then they stopped. Either our music grew on them, or they decided it was not worth the effort.

We have mostly solved the food issue. We have thoroughly explored the valley and know where to pick berries, apples, where to bring the few horses we have left to graze… we have planted some wild vegetables close to our settlement and found wild goats, which are not so wild anymore.

Speaking of the settlement, we built a new hall higher on the slope! I am writing on the balcony overlooking the valley, enjoying Arien’s morning rays and warm mint herbal tea. Lindir is doing some horse archery training bellow. For fun, I guess, since our valley is not the best ground for light cavalry. It makes me wonder: Moruivë and Maglor were both renowned archers on horseback. It was a specialty of the Gap, was it not? After two years living together, it is surprising I know so little about Lindir. He is not a very chatty person. How old is he, really? Old enough to have fought in the Gap? In one of the kinslayings? Or is he merely a descendant of those who did?

I have given some thoughts to Alwedon of late. Mayhap this is boredom speaking, nonetheless I feel asking about him would not be as much of a chore as I used to. Two years ago. Has it been two years already? Somehow I feel like we are all dragonflies caught in amber. Surely the world must be moving outside of the valley, but we do not feel like it does.

Two years are nothing.

Fingolfin held for four hundreds.

I suppose his valley was bigger than mine.

Or mayhap he did not have edain blood gnawing at him, and that is why he could be so patient. He, and my great-grandfather Turgon. He did sound like he could wait forever for the world to fall on his head.

Anyway. It is time for me to go to the palisade in Glorfindel’s stead. I am almost hoping the orcs will do something interesting today. Interesting but not gruesome, of course.

Best regards,

Elrond.

***

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

Are you sure Alwedon actually exists? I have spent a month asking everyone about him, and it is like no one ever heard of him. I have pestered Lindir for a long time, which is fair because he has been pestering for almost two years about singing (I do not sing)

(I am not planning on starting anytime soon)

(or ever)

I have also spoken with Glorfindel. Since he was Princess Elenwë’s cousin (on her mother side)

(but surely historians like you must know that)

Since he was Princess Elenwë’s cousin, so part of the extended family, I decided to show him your letter. He does not believe Finarfin would have lied to you, nor sees any reason why the ledgers would be false, but he found many reasons for Alwedon’s absence. Mayhap he wanted to explore the world, South or East. There were rumors in the early First Age about elven civilizations in those directions, but the Noldor were too taken in the war and did not make contact with them. Mayhap he died of a silly accident, or tracked Maglor and they murdered each other. Mayhap Alwedon changed his name and no-one is calling him on it, because that would be extremely rude.

I understand. Given how tied to us our names, someone changing his would leave his whole identity behind; were he to sing some magic into the change, and those who knew him would not recognize him unless they expect him.

I am way, way too frustrated about this. I used not to care about your little investigation, and now it is circling in my head like a noisy fly.

I am not thanking you.

Yours, not truly,

Elrond.

***

Dear sundered kin,

A bird flew on a strong summer wind, carrying news from Gil-Galad. I am certain the words are his, since his atrocious twengar are a sight that would send their maker straight to Mandos, should he be reborn and see them. Mayhap this is why Gil-Galad wrote this himself (for once): so I would be certain the letter is his.

On with the good news! The world is moving after all. Numenor has come and soldiers are setting foot on Middle Earth with each new dawn. They already number as many spears and bows as Lindon’s army, and Gil-Galad believes they will, in the end, outnumber the combined armies of Khazad-Dum, Lorien, Lindon, and the few I managed to save from Eregion.

He is too kind. I saved nothing from Eregion. Those who are with us saved themselves alright.

Anyway. I expect war to come our way again, one way or another. Either Sauron manages a push that wipes out the Alliance and will be free to come back for us, or he does not, and we have yet to see if he attempts to destroy us on his way back to his lair.

The issue has been much discussed in council. All agree we have to stop singing on the palisades to annoy the orcs and pile up as much food as we can, since we may soon need all arms on the Bruinen. Lindir spouted nonsense about trying to seek connection through singing with the river. A fine plan for Sinda royalty! Except all the queen, princes and lord who managed such feats either had decades (if not centuries!) to bond with their lands, or happened to be either a Maia or a half-Maia.

Lindir can woo the Bruinen all he wants. I am not Luthien, nor am I Thingol, and hopefully not Dior or my mother (though the failures of their leadership is not exactly their own).

Furthermore: I do not sing.

I am also starting to wonder if seven palisades was not a call for doom.

Best regards,

Elrond

***

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

Winter has come and we are still waiting. Life has become duller, mostly due to the cold weather, but also because whoever commands the orcs decided the fun was over. No more music, no more masked nonsensical theatre. We have received no insulting pebble in a full month.

Alwedon’s status is still “unknown”, not that this is surprising. It is not like I was able to ask anyone I had not asked before. I am starting to think he got the best pick, since no one will ever expect anything out of the ordinary from him. Were he a known son of Maglor, and were he there, I am certain he would be asked to invent something ground breaking or go serenade the river himself.

Perhaps I should have considered changing my name, but it is now too late to do so, and I guess I will have to live with it or run away to the far corners of this world.

Best regards,

Elrond

***

Dear Vinyarë and Naryafinwë,

This is the worst winter we had since we arrived. It is like spring refuses to come, and there is still snow everywhere where young grass should be sprouting. None of us should die of the cold itself, but there is one very unfortunate consequence to this: the Bruinen is still stuck in ice. Has been for a long time, and as long as neither snow nor ice are melting, the river is running very low. Low enough that it will not hinder at all an army assaulting our walls.

I have received another bird from Gil-Galad. The poor hawk was half frozen. I wonder how many other were lost in the mountains, winds and gale. The allied armies of the free people are coming closer and closer, with Sauron’s forces running fast between them and our own position. We shall know if the dark lord will make an attempt in a few days, a few weeks at most.

We quarreled in council. Lindir insists we should try to melt the ice away with singing to unleash the Bruinen. What can I say? Great names of the First Age would probably have been able to attempt this. Everyone probably expects me to attempt this.

How many times do I have to repeat myself? I do not sing. I learnt more than the basics. A thousand years ago! If I had some hidden Luthien-like powers, I would know. I am just tired of people believing that my glorious ancestors make me somehow qualified to save the day with unseen feats.

So my very wise self snapped. I asked Lindir if Maglor’s singing did anything to mitigate the disaster of the Sudden Flame, something along the line of too bad we cannot get him back from wherever he is, and other horrors of the same sort. He decided to go try his luck with the Bruinen himself and slammed the door.

Good riddance.

***

Dear whoever is reading those letters,

I am a terrible leader. An absolute child. I have no idea where my captain is. YES I am talking about LINDIR

Who is also a child

***

Dear cousins,

Please do ignore my last letter. It seems like too much tension blew into my face; may we all rejoice that it blew on a piece of birch bark rather than in the council room. I am tired of waiting for Sauron’s move, worried for Lindir, and it is very easy to remember this is my first command and it has not been very successful so far. It seems like armies are not my strongest point. Building settlements? This is more like me. If we end up not dying in this war I may not return to Gil-Galad’s court immediately. I think I would enjoy building a city.

Were those thoughts that of Celebrimbor when he left Lindon? His wars did not go well either.

The truth is that I am extremely afraid. There are moments when I think I should have built fifteen palisades, if only to avoid the dreadful seven of Gondolin. I do not see what I can do to improve our situation. I wish Sauron could attack to know if what we did is enough. I of course wish he will never attack.

Everyone is behaving splendidly, for people who have been trapped for years, expect death by blade, arrows, and far worst for the survivors, and are commanded by a frustrated, overly emotional young leader who does not quite knows what he is doing. I cannot say I will be thrilled to die by their side, but at least it will be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not a bug.
> 
> This is really the chapter's ending. 
> 
> As always comments are very much appreciated! Any theories about the characters? About what happens next? Will Elrond get eaten by orcs? What will the epilogue be about? Will Vinyarë and Naryafinwë have seven children? 
> 
> See you soon and thank you for reading <3


	10. Epilogue: Beyond the mist

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
I heard a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, longing to believe  
That this battle could be won.   
“Come! Raise your voice once more,  
To withstand this storm,  
Raise your voice once more,  
To summon victory!”  
  
There were old paths to follow,  
Fallen guides, cursed warriors,  
Terror took my hand  
When shadows whispered: hope is too far away!  
You called me to sing, to raise my voice.  
After each cut, your songs came to be  
Could I sing? I, the damaged child  
in a moment of despair, or a moment of fury?  
To sing, to survive, to express, to exist,  
To sing, to refuse to bow?

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
I heard your flute singing,  
Singing of hope, longing to believe  
That even ice can burn.  
Your tune rose once more,  
To break winter’s skin,  
Your tune rose once more,  
To summon bitter victory.

When did I understand?  
Songs are in our hearts,  
To lift us after each wound,  
To guide us beyond the mist!  
When life punishes us, music consoles us  
When did your flute start to sing?  
When did its notes become my breath?  
When did your music summon me here?  
I sang what was taken from me,  
I sang to find my way, to conquer, to exist!

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
I heard a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, longing to believe  
That spring will return.  
So sprang my voice once more,  
To break winter’s skin,  
So sprang my voice once more,  
To summon sweet victory.

***

**Valinor  
In the first years of the Fourth Age**

The New University of Tirion had not been _new_ in a very long time. It retained its name for the sake of Ages long gone, but the building had the distinctive look of one that had been caressed by wind, rain and elves for long enough to win a life of its own.

Fëanor’s statue was back in the hall – the mysterious one with the harp and the seashell. Behind it was a rather gruesome fresco of the Darkening. Did someone believe the rebel king looked too kind in white marble, and this deceptive softness had to be balanced with fire and blood?

Bells sang somewhere, deep in the maze of amphitheaters and hallways, announcing the end of classes for the day. Time to go up the stairs. By the time the visitor reached the classroom dedicated to History, most of the students were gone. He waited until the last of them had left to enter.

“Yes?” the mistress called, expecting some student. She closed a book, tidied some papers before she raised her head. “Oh!” she exclaimed. Her hand went to her mouth, then fell to her heart. She mouthed another silent _oh_. Then she recovered and said, quietly: “You must be Elrond.”

“Well met, Vinyarë Findaratiel.”

He bowed with a smile; when he looked back at her, having lost sight of her for a moment only, her mouth mirrored his.

“Well met indeed, Elrond Eärendillion! You should have sent a messenger from the palace, I would have met you there.”

“I must admit I did not premeditate my visit – it was quicker for me to come directly.”

“Well! It is my pleasure.” She almost bounced down the stage. There were still flowers of silk woven in her hair, and she still had in her the energy of a deer. But in the back of her eyes, nestled the warm shadows left by motherhood, and ambers of a marriage bond. “I have been quite curious about you. You were probably warned that my inquisitiveness knows no bounds, and once the sundering would be mended, I would never leave you alone!”

He did not answer. Merely smiled, and kept for himself that yes, he had been warned that some of his cousins, aunts, uncle, and numerous kin would be… trying. But in Valinor it was extremely rude to seek newly returned elves rather than let them come at their own pace. In Elrond’s case, that meant most members of his very numerous clan were still waiting for him to drop by.

He did not make plans. He came to them when the fancy took him; when a sudden desire came to ask about a certain tale, or when he found in his possession some old heirloom he had always meant to return to deceased kin.

“I have indeed been told you wanted to record our family’s stories,” Elrond started. “I believe I may be of some help. I have brought some books and rolls from Imladris – and this.” He picked a small box from his bag; a box of wood, nothing precious, that he had forgotten for ages until he found it in his oldest wardrobe, almost my mistake, right before his departure.

In the box were old sheets of paper and fragile birch bark pieces darkened with four different handwriting: Finrod’s, Vinyarë’s, Elrond’s, and Lindir’s.

“I believe, Princess, you never got the answer to your investigation…”

“Oh my! _Someone_ received my letter! I was certain it had gotten lost in… everything that happened. Ah, what you must think of me! I was so young and silly!”

A few millennium ago, Elrond would have burnt his own letters rather than show them to anyone, because there were a bit more embarrassing (in his humble opinion) that overly sweet Vinyarë’s.

But a few millennium ago, Elrond had been young, and now… “Do not worry, Princess.”

He smiled, and though his eyes still carried the grief of the daughter, the roaring river and misty valley he left behind, he said with the warmth of summer: “So was I.”

***

**A land formerly called Lindon  
In the first years of the Fourth Age**

_In the dark, beyond the mist, I hear a flute singing…_

The bard whistled as he walked. The sun had risen, or was very close to rising; he could not say. The fog was too thick.

Which was a good thing, considering that he needed mist to find his quarry.

It had taken him a long time to solve this riddle. Lindir had many reasons to know an elf who did not want to be found could be tricky to find – but the ways of Arda, no matter how tortuous, always led _somewhere_. To each mask there was a crack, to each hideout a trail, to each lost space: a door.

He brought his flute to his lips.

It did not matter where he was. What mattered was the fog. Too thick to sail, too thick to hunt. The fog was supposed to be an impenetrable obstacle – when in fact it was the bridge.

It was an old trick of the Sindar of Mithrim.

One no one would expect of Maglor of the Noldor, though it was laughingly predictable.

“So, you are a musician now.”

Lindir kept playing. He was no beginner to interrupt his song so quickly, when his quarry could still melt in the mist.

“I should have known.”

Yes.

He should have.

Not that Lindir was talented. To be honest, he merely had the skills of someone who had worked hard, with angry determination, and for several millenia. He had not been born with a great voice, not like Elrond was, or with the Peredhel’s enormous raw potential. He had been born on horseback; his heart and blood sang when his fingers plucked the string of a bow, not that of a harp.

“I should have known I could not free you from me.”

The bard kept playing.

Because if there was something that very _Fëanorian_ of him, it was his inability to let go of the bone he was chewing.

And Lindir had been chewing for a very, _very_ long time.

So he played for what felt like an eternity; yet when the fog parted, dawn was still upon them, and the horizon still dark upon the sea.

“You look like shit, father,” Lindir said, lowering his flute.

“You do not,” Maglor answered.

He did not try to run. He looked worn out, like an old piece of wood bleached white by the waves.

Lindir carried a sword, a bow, and enough arrows. Would Maglor react, should he unsheathe his weapons? Or was he so hollowed he would do nothing to protect himself?

“I am leaving Middle Earth,” Lindir said.

“Good.”

“I will not come back.”

“Good.”

“You are coming with me.”

“No.”

“I am not asking you if you want to come with me. You _are_ coming with me. Our time here is as its ends – those who stay will fade. You cannot be unaware of the fate awaiting you if you remain.”

“I do not care.”

“I am not asking for your opinion: come with me, or I will drag you. Should you resist, I will kill you. Then I will kill myself, grab your spirit, and drag you to Mandos. I came to Aman by way of death once, I am not afraid of walking that road again.”

Lindir’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Maglor blinked, slowly, like some elderly owl pondering if refusing was not way too much troubles. Or too tiring. Or both.

Then he nodded – because it is pointless to try to stop the tides with sand castles, and he had faded enough already to know he could not refuse the Call while battling the spirit of an angry brat with six millennium of bottled frustration.

“You,” he simply said, admitting defeat, “you really are your mother’s son.”

***

In the dark, beyond the mist,  
We hear a flute singing,  
Singing of hope, longing to believe  
That all things can be renewed.  
So we raise our voices once more,  
To be reunited, beyond the storm,  
We raise our voices once more,  
To return to our forsaken home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaand this is the end everyone! No more adding chapters, it's finished!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the ride! Enormous thanks to all of those who kudoed and commented, ENORMOUS (in capslock) thanks to Lidoshka for the adventure, and to the TRSB mods for bringing us together <3
> 
> As always comments are very much appreciated, thank you <3


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